Cry Me A River by Ernest Hill Page B

child. You was just under the spell of something evil. And I should’ve got between you and it before it got hold of you.”
    She paused, and Tyrone could see that her eyes had begun to water.
    “It’s gone be awright, son,” she said again. “God gone make a way somehow. I know he is.”
    Tyrone opened his mouth to say something, butthrough the open door, he heard footsteps in the hall. He turned his head and looked. René appeared in the doorway. She still wore the same white, loose-fitting dress and low-cut, flat-soled shoes that she had worn to work that morning. Balanced on her left hand was a plate of food, and in her right hand was a glass of something. It appeared to be like tea.
    “Ready to eat, Mama?” she asked.
    Tyrone saw his mother nod, and he watched René slowly enter the room, holding her tall, lean body rigid and walking stiff legged, taking care not to drop the plate or spill the tea. He looked at the plate. There was one pork chop, a small portion of black-eyed peas, a square of corn bread, a few mustard greens, and a tiny slice of sweet potato pie. As René placed the plate of food on their mother’s lap and the glass of tea on top of the space heater in the corner next to their mother’s chair, he quietly rose to his feet and moved next to the door. As soon as she began to eat, he would excuse himself and retrieve the box from the hallway, then go to his room and review the papers.
    “René, fix your brother a plate,” he heard his mother say.
    René frowned. She had not wanted him here, at least not until he had proven he had changed, and she certainly did not want to serve him. No, she did not hate him or wish him ill will. But their mother wasn’t well. Her heart was bad, her pressure was high, and any more trouble would kill her for sure. No, she had not wanted him to come, and she did not want him to stay.
    “I ain’t hungry,” Tyrone said in a low, meek tone. “I ate at the diner.”
    René looked at him out of the corner of her eye to let him know that she had not planned on serving him anyway.
    “Ain’t no sense in wasting good money on something to eat and we got plenty food in this house,” his mother said. “Son, you at home.” She emphasized
home
, then looked at him and then at René to make sure that they both understood. “You want something in this house, you welcome to it, hear?”
    He nodded and glanced at René, then looked away.
    “Mama, you need anything else before I go?” René asked.
    “Naw, baby, this fine.”
    “Then, I’m gone go on in the back and rest,” she said. “It’s been a long, hard day, and I’m good and tired.”
    “Okay, baby,” Tyrone heard his mother say. “See you in the morning.”
    René approached the door, and Tyrone moved aside. When she passed, she rolled her eyes at him but did not speak.
    “Son, you better come on and have some,” Tyrone heard his mother say. He looked in her direction. She had broken off a small piece of corn bread and had begun eating the bread and the greens with her fingers.
    “No, thank you, Mama,” he said. “I got some reading to do.”

Chapter
13
    H urt and dejected, Tyrone excused himself and hurried to his room, carrying the box of documents he had brought from Captain Jack’s office. Since there was no desk or table in his bedroom, he sat atop the bed with his tired, anxious body slouched lazily against the solid oak headboard and his weary, tear-stained eyes focused on the stack of papers resting against the back of his uplifted knees. As he sat sifting through the hoards of documents, trying to reconstruct the case against his son, he could hear the sound of René’s slippers sliding across the floor in her bedroom next door. Though he could not see her, he was sure that she was pacing. In his mind, he could picture her slowly sauntering back and forth, her arms folded across her chest, and her agitated eyes cast downward in a concentrated gaze. And though she had not told him, he was