Family Ties. Ernest Hill

      “You think your mother hates you,” she said, “but you’re wrong.”

      I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked around the old house. I could feel Mr. Henry’s presence lingering in the space that he had once occupied. I shook my head again. I wanted to hate my mother, and I wanted to hate my father, and I wanted that hatred to give me the strength to leave this place.

      “Son, your mama loves you,” she said. “And I suspect deep down you know that.” She paused. I remained quiet. “When your mother said those things to you, you were a troubled little boy caught up in a bad situation. But you’re not that boy anymore. Now you’re a man—a twenty-five-year-old man with a college education. Go home and let your mama see what kind of man her child has become.”

      There was silence. I looked at her, but I did not speak.

      “Will you go?” she asked.

      I hesitated again. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time that I went back to Brownsville. After all, I wasn’t a child anymore; I was a grown man with a college degree. And perhaps my mother would be proud of what I had become. Perhaps she would see that I was not like my “no-good daddy.” No, her child, the one they had called outlaw, the one who had done six years in juvenile hall for first-degree murder, the one for whom she had cried a river of tears, her son, D’Ray Reid, had made something of himself. Yes, I would go, and like the prodigal son, my return would be cause for celebration.

      “Will you?” I heard Miss Big Siss ask again.

      “Will you go with me?” I asked her.

      “Of course I will,” she said.

      Then there was silence.

      “Does that mean you’re going?” she asked.

      I looked up. Our eyes met. I nodded.

      2

      Mr. Henry’s old green pickup truck was parked next to the house beneath the carport. Miss Big Siss followed me out to the truck, and once I had helped her climb inside, I went around to the driver’s side, got in, and slowly pulled out of the driveway, heading north toward the still blue waters of Lake Providence.

      As I drove, I formulated a plan. When I reached Brownsville, I would park in front of my mother’s house, then cross the yard and take the stairs like one who belonged. And when she opened the door, her eyes would fall upon me, and she would cry, and then she would stretch forth her arms and pull me into her bosom, and all that had been wrong between us would be made right, and she would apologize for the ugly words she had directed at me all those years ago, and I would accept her apology, and the nightmare that had been our relationship would be never more. Involuntarily, I let out a deep sigh. Oh, if only this vision, which danced so vividly in my head, could somehow morph into the reality that I was so desperate to claim.

      I turned left at the caution light and headed west toward Brownsville. The truck rumbled over the tracks, and I heard Miss Big Siss grunt. I looked at her; she was bracing herself against the door. I had been driving too fast. I gently pressed the brake and the truck slowed. Through the windshield, I spied a sign neatly nestled on the far shoulder: BROWNSVILLE 8 MILES. I swallowed hard, feeling my tepid skin flash hot. It just did not seem fair that I should have to deal with so much. Suddenly, I frowned. I could not picture my mother’s face. It had been so long since I had been in her presence that I simply could not picture her. How strange this was to me; she was my mother, and I could not picture her face.

      In Brownsville, I spied a flower shop on the corner just off Main Street. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. I should bring her something—a peace offering of sorts. I pulled into the parking lot and stopped, my eager eyes fastened on the sign hanging high above the tiny flower shop. I looked at the sign and then at Miss Big Siss.

      “Maybe I ought to buy Mama some flowers?”

      “That would be nice.”

      “What kind?”

      “Roses,” she said. “A lady is always partial to roses.”

      “Roses it is,” I said. “A dozen red roses.”

      I hurried from the truck and bound toward the door. Inside, I paused and looked around. An arrangement in the far corner caught my eye. I was starting toward it when a woman called to me. I snapped around, startled. Our eyes met. I paused and looked at her. She was a beautiful lady. I guessed she was in her midtwenties. She was wearing an elegant gray skirt with matching high heels. Her shoulder-length hair was down, and she was carrying a rather expensive-looking purse. Then, suddenly, I recognized her.

      “Peaches,” I exclaimed. “Is it really you?”

      Involuntarily, I felt the corners of my mouth form a smile. And in that instant, I was in Jackson again, looking through the peephole, staring at a young, beautiful woman standing before the door, seeking entrance into the seedy hotel room that served as my temporary hideout.

      “It’s me,” she said.

      I took her into my arms and held her for a long time. “What in the world are you doing here?” I asked, finally releasing her.

      “I live here,” she said.

      “In Brownsville?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re lying.”

      “No,” she said. “It’s true.”

      “But how can that be?”

      “It’s a long story,” she said.

      Through the large bay window, I could see Miss Big Siss. She was still sitting in the truck, only now her head was bowed and I figured she was looking through her purse for something. I looked at her for a moment, then at Peaches. No, I couldn’t keep her waiting. That would be rude.

      “Right now I’m pushed for time,” I said.

      “How about the abridged version?” she asked me.

      “Sure,” I said.

      “In short,” she said, smiling, “I came looking for you.”

      “For me!” I said, frowning.

      “Yes,” she said. “For you.”

      “But how did you know where to find me? I mean, I never told you where I lived.”

      “Your cousin told me.”

      “What cousin?”

      “Glenda.”

      I hesitated. “How do you know Glenda?”

      “I met her at a church retreat.”

      “Really.”

      “Yes. The two of us shared a room. As a matter of fact, that’s how your name came up. One night, I saw a picture of you in her photo album. When I saw the picture, I asked her how she knew you, and she said that you were her cousin. Then I asked where you were, and she told me that you had been sent away to Louisiana Youth Authority and that after you were released, the family lost contact with you. So then I asked her where she thought I ought to look for you, and she said Brownsville, because sooner or later, you were bound to come back.”

      “So you moved to Brownsville.”

      “That’s right,” she said. “Three years ago.”

      “And you waited all this time?”

      “Yes,” she said.

      “Why?”

      “First of all, you saved my life—”

      “No,” I interrupted her. “That’s not true.”

      “It is true,” she said. “Because of you, I got off the streets and I went to college—I’m a teacher now.”

      “A teacher!”