Family Ties. Ernest Hill

      “Yes, sir,” she said.

      “And who is your brother?”

      “Henry,” she said. “Henry Earl.”

      Suddenly, the two men gasped.

      “Henry Earl was your brother!” Sonny said.

      “Yes, sir,” Miss Big Siss said. “We just buried him not more than an hour ago. Then we came here so this boy could see his mother. He hasn’t seen her in years.”

      “My condolences,” Sonny said, fumbling with his hat.

      “So this boy was with you last night?” the chief pressed.

      “Yes, sir,” she said. “This young man was with me.”

      The chief frowned. “All night?” he asked through clenched teeth.

      “Sir?” Miss Big Siss responded, confused by the question.

      “Did he stay in the house with you all night?”

      “No, sir,” she said. “He stayed in Henry’s house.”

      “Alone?” the chief asked her.

      “As far as I know,” she said.

      “Then you don’t know who he saw,” the chief said. “Do you?”

      “I know he was with us,” Miss Big Siss said.

      “Us?” the chief asked.

      “Yes, sir,” she said, “the family.” She paused again, then explained further. “Henry’s wake was last night, and several of us, including him, sat up the better part of the night talking.”

      The chief was done with her. He focused again on me.

      “How long have you been in town?” he asked me.

      I didn’t answer.

      “He just got here,” Miss Big Siss answered for me.

      “I wasn’t talking to you,” the chief said. “I was talking to him.” He continued to stare at me; I stared back. When I didn’t say anything, he spoke again. “You sure you didn’t get here last night?”

      I remained quiet.

      “We got here a few minutes ago,” Miss Big Siss said. “We just left the funeral. We didn’t even take time to change clothes.”

      Sonny looked at me, then squinted.

      “Where’s Curtis?” he snapped.

      “You tell me,” I said, “you the law.”

      The chief’s face flushed red. He raised an angry finger and pointed it at me. “Did Curtis come to you for help?”

      I remained quiet.

      The chief turned his attention to Mama. “Mira,” he said. “Enough is enough. Now, I want you to tell me where that boy is. And I want you to tell me right now. You hear?”

      “I don’t know where he is,” Mama said.

      “Didn’t you see him last night?” the chief asked.

      “I saw him,” Mama said.

      “And he didn’t tell you anything?”

      “No, sir,” she said. “He didn’t.”

      “That boy wouldn’t leave here without saying something to you,” the chief said.

      “Well, he did,” Mama said.

      “I was good to him,” the chief mumbled. “I let him have the run of the place. And this is how he repays me.” He paused. Everyone remained quiet. “He’s trying to embarrass me,” the chief said. “And I’m not going to stand for that, you hear?”

      He looked at Mama. She remained quiet.

      “Mira,” Sonny said pleadingly. “You’re not helping him.”

      “I told you all I know,” she snapped.

      “You know where he is,” the chief said. “I know you do.”

      “No, sir,” she said. “I don’t.”

      “What happened last night?” Sonny asked.

      “I cooked him some food and brought it to him in the jail. Just like I always do,” she said. “That’s all.”

      “Just like I always let you,” the chief said.

      “How was he acting?” Sonny asked her.

      “Like he always acted,” she told him.

      The chief didn’t like her answer; he frowned again, displaying angry eyes. “And how was that?” he asked.

      “Like he didn’t have a care in the world,” she said.

      “Are you sure he didn’t say anything?” Sonny said.

      “He didn’t say a word. He just ate his food.”

      “What time did you leave?” the chief asked.

      “About twelve-thirty,” she said. “Just like always.”

      The chief grabbed her shoulders with both hands. “Did you help that boy escape?” he snapped.

      “No,” she shouted, pulling away. “But I’m glad he’s gone.”

      “Mira!” Sonny said.

      “Well, I am,” she said. “He ain’t done nothing. He ain’t done nothing at all. And you know it.”

      The chief paused, fuming. “Alright,” he said. “Be glad. But when you see that boy, you tell him something for me. You tell him to run. And you tell him to run hard—and you tell him I said he better not slip up, because when he do, I’m gonna be there, and when I catch up to him, I’m gonna blow a hole in him big as Texas.” He whirled and looked at Sonny. “Let’s go,” he said.

      He stormed out of the house and Sonny followed him. When Mama was sure they were gone, she fell on the sofa and sobbed. I closed the door, then eased next to her. Inside my head, I heard Miss Big Siss’s words again: family is everything, and right now she and Little Man are the only family you got.

      “Mama,” I said. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but we need to put our differences aside for now because this is trouble. This is big trouble.”

      She didn’t answer.

      “Mama,” I said. “You need to talk to me.”

      She still didn’t answer.

      “I can’t help Little Man if I don’t know what’s going on.”

      I paused. Again, still no answer.

      “Mama,” I said pleadingly. “You need to tell me what you know.”

      A moment passed and she began to speak. “He told me to cook him a big meal.” She paused and shook her head. “He said he needed some food that would stick to his ribs. He said he was going to run.”

      “He told you that?” Grandpa said.

      “I told him not to,” she said. “I told him that he was going to make matters worse. But he wouldn’t listen. He said he didn’t have any choice. He said he had been cleaning the chief’s office, and while he was in there, he saw some papers on the chief’s desk. He said they were getting ready to send him to Angola and that he wasn’t going to go to no Angola.”

      She paused and began sobbing again.

      “What else did he say?” I asked her.

      “That’s all.”

      “Did he tell you where he was going?”

      “No,”