Family Ties. Ernest Hill

turned toward Mama again. She was sitting with her hands folded across her lap. Her body was taut, and she was gently rocking back and forth.

      “Why would the police allow you to visit like that?” I asked her.

      “Sonny fixed it that way.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I asked him to.”

      “No,” I said. “There’s more to it than that.”

      “Little Man gave Sonny his word,” she explained. “He told Sonny that he would behave. And Sonny believed him.”

      I paused again, thinking. “When did they allow you to see him?”

      “Whenever I wanted,” she said.

      “They gave you access to the jail whenever you wanted it?”

      “Sometimes I would go to the jail,” she said. “And sometimes Sonny would bring him here.”

      “What!” I said. “Are you telling me that the chief allowed Sonny to bring Little Man home?”

      “Yes,” she said.

      “When?” I asked, still not believing what I was hearing.

      “They would usually get here around midnight, and the three of us would watch TV and talk.”

      “How long would he stay?”

      “An hour or two, then Sonny would take him back.”

      “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

      “He did it for me,” she said.

      “Why would the chief agree to that?”

      “This is a small town,” she said. “And them white folks can do whatever they want. I didn’t ask why. I just accepted it.”

      “Something about this ain’t right,” I said.

      “Right and wrong ain’t got nothing to do with this,” she said.

      “I don’t trust the chief,” I said. “And I sure don’t trust that Sonny. I never did, and I never will.”

      “Sonny’s a good man,” Mama said, becoming defensive.

      “I don’t trust him,” I said again.

      “He’s been good to me,” she said. “And he’s been good to Little Man. Through it all, he’s been good to us.”

      I shifted my feet and listened to the faint sound of cars passing on the street. My nerves were taut. Why was I having this conversation? None of this mattered now. I was beyond the world of Sonny, and I was beyond the world of men like the chief. My eyes fell again upon my mother; I could see her broad shoulders shuddering as she sobbed heavily. I moved next to her and eased onto the sofa.

      I collected myself, then spoke again. “Little Man is on drugs,” I said. “Ain’t he?”

      “No,” she said between sobs. “He was at one time, before he went into rehab and before he joined the church.”

      “You think he had a relapse?”

      “No,” she said. “He’s been clean for years.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “I’m positive,” she said. “When all of this happened, he was a drug counselor at the church. He had come to hate drugs.”

      “If that’s the case,” I said, “why would he break into someone’s house?”

      “He didn’t,” she snapped.

      “Wasn’t he convicted for breaking and entering?” I asked.

      “And for burglary,” Grandpa said.

      “And assault,” Aunt Peggy added.

      “But he didn’t do it,” Mama insisted.

      I paused and looked at her. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. “How much time did they give him?” I asked.

      “Twenty-five to life,” she said.

      “What!” I shouted.

      Suddenly, she fell facedown on the sofa, sobbing.

      “It’s gonna be alright, Sister Reid,” Miss Irene said. “It’s gonna be alright.”

      I wanted to console her, too, but at that moment, there was something in me that resented her. She had not grieved for me when I was sent away. She had simply turned her back and declared me dead. I turned toward the window, seeing heavy, gray clouds gathering from the west. It would rain again, but neither the wind, nor the strong currents of water could wash away that which was before me. I cautioned myself to be calm and not give in to the wave of hot rage rapidly rising within me. Suddenly, things were as they had always been. Inside of me I felt an overbearing need to protect the naive little brother who did not have the ability to protect himself. And then I heard the voice again telling me to forget about Mama and concentrate on him, for you are your brother’s keeper.

      “Where do you think he might have gone?”

      “I don’t know,” she said.

      “He must’ve told you something.”

      “No,” she said. “He didn’t.”

      “Did he have any money?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Did he have anybody who might have helped him get out of town?”

      “Nobody that I can think of.”

      “Who did he hang out with before he went to jail?”

      “Nobody,” she said. “He mainly kept to himself.”

      “Does he have a girlfriend?”

      “No,” she said, “at least not to my knowledge.”

      There was silence.

      “Think you can find him?” Grandpa asked me.

      “I’ll find him,” I said.

      “No!” Mama protested. “I don’t want him found.”

      “You heard the chief,” I said. “If they catch him, they’ll kill him.”

      “And if he goes to prison, he’ll die.”

      “Doing time won’t kill him,” I said. “But the chief will.”

      She stopped sobbing and her eyes became stern. “He ain’t like his daddy,” she said. “And he ain’t like you. He can’t do time.”

      “He can if he has to.”

      She started to say something else and I interrupted her. “Did you say he was active in the church?”

      “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

      I paused. Peaches had spoken about the church. Perhaps she knew him, or perhaps she knew someone who knew him. And if she did, maybe they knew where he was. Yes, I had to speak to her, and I had to speak to her right now.

      “I got to go,” I said.

      “Go where?” Mama wanted to know.

      “To see somebody,” I told her.

      “Stay out of it,” she yelled. “You hear me? Stay out of it.”

      I didn’t answer.

      “I mean it,” she yelled again. “Stay out of it.”

      I went through the door. Miss Big Siss followed me. I drove her home and then I called Peaches. She agreed to meet me in Lake Providence, at the little sandwich shop on the lake. I changed clothes, then headed to the sandwich shop.