Cry Me A River (26 page)

Pauline looked at the warden for the first time. Still, she did not speak. Her red, swollen eyes watered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Right now we have your son in a holding cell. Tonight, he will receive his last meal. Which can consist of anything that he wants as long as it costs less than twenty dollars. Tomorrow, his attorney will be allowed to visit him. But at exactly two hours prior to his scheduled execution, visitation will be terminated. With one exception. A spiritual advisor is allowed to be with him up until the time he is taken to the execution chamber. If he so chooses.”

The warden paused again and asked them if they had questions. Tyrone shook his head. Pauline did not respond. She remained still, staring ahead, her eyes wet with tears.

“Now, one hour before his execution, he will be moved from his isolation cell to a small holding cell near the execution chamber,” Warden Fletcher resumed. “He will have thirty minutes to collect himself, or to pray, or to write a final note, or talk to his spiritual advisor. Then at exactly thirty minutes before his execution, he will be strip searched, dressed in khaki pants,
khaki shirt, and slippers. At exactly fifteen minutes before his execution, his hands and feet will be shackled, and he will be taken to the execution room. In the execution room, he will be strapped to the execution table, and an IV will be inserted into his right arm. Once that has been done, the curtain will open, and he will have an opportunity to make a final statement to the victim’s family or to members of the press. When he has concluded his statement, I will signal the executioner. At that time, three injections will be administered. The first will put him to sleep. The second will stop his breathing. And the third will stop his heart. After the final injection has been administered, I will relinquish your son’s remains to the coroner. At which time, the coroner will remove the body, and once his office has concluded their procedures, they will turn the body over to the family. The entire process should take less than fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, we do not allow members of the condemned’s family to be present during the execution. We do that out of respect for the victim’s family.” He paused. “Do either of you have any questions?”

“When can I see my child?” Pauline spoke for the first time. Her soft voice trembled, and Tyrone took her hand, trying to comfort her.

“Right now,” the warden said. He pressed a button and spoke into the intercom. “Officer Williams, please escort Mr. and Mrs. Stokes to the visitation room.”

When the officer arrived, Tyrone and Pauline followed him through a series of clanging doors and into a moderate-size room. It was a drab room with four gray cement walls, a bare concrete floor, and a rather large rectangular table around which were eight or ten plain wooden chairs. Tyrone helped Pauline to her seat. She was frail, so frail that he began to wonder whether or
not this was a good idea. What would happen if she broke down again, or if she became too emotional, or if she passed out. No, perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps he should have come alone.

They had not been seated long when the door opened again and Marcus walked in, escorted on either side by armed officers. Tyrone studied him. His hair was combed, his face shaven. He was standing tall, erect. He was trying to appear brave, but Tyrone could see that he was scared.

“How are you, son?” Tyrone rose and greeted him.

“I’m fine, Papa.” Marcus forced a nervous smile, then turned toward Pauline. She looked at him but did not stand. She appeared solemn and tired, and her frail body seemed wracked with worry. “Hi, Mama,” he said. He kissed her on the jaw, and she began to cry. Instantly, Marcus’s lips tightened, and he began to tremble. He had come to terms, as best he could, with his own plight, but this image of his frail, suffering mother made him feel that at any minute his own resolve would weaken and like her he, too, would cry. He did not want that. He did not want to cry. He would not cry. He could not cry.

“Mama,” he called to her gently. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.”

Tyrone sat next to her and cloaked her in his arms. She buried her head in his chest, and despite his best efforts to settle her, she continued to cry. Marcus sat in the chair directly across from them. He turned and stole a quick glance at the guards. Yes, this was what they desired. They wanted to see them suffer, and they wanted to see them mourn, and they wanted to see them fall on their knees and stretch forth their arms, pleading for mercy that would not come. No, he would not cry. And he would not plead. And he would not
beg. Die if he must, but he would not beg. Again, he looked at his mother, and he secretly prayed for God to grant her the strength to face that which would be done.

“Mama,” he called to her again.

He waited, but she did not respond.

“I’m all right, Mama,” he said. “Please, don’t cry.”

She continued to sob, and he paused again, searching for the words that would strengthen her. No, comfort her. “Reverend Jacobs brung me a Bible.” He paused again, but still she neither looked at him nor stopped crying. Her face remained pressed hard against Tyrone’s chest. “I been reading Psalms.” Suddenly, her sobbing became heavier. “The twenty-third Psalm …” He paused again. “That’s what Reverend Jacobs told me to say … tomorrow … when it happens.”

“Ain’t nothing gone happen,” Tyrone said, his voice forceful.

“He told me to memorize it,” Marcus said. His eyes were glassy, his voice detached. He seemed far away.

“Ain’t nothing gone happen,” Tyrone said again.

“He told me … while they was handling me … not to think about what they was doing. Just say it over and over again … and it would give me courage. And when they was done … I would have peace.”

“Son.” Tyrone looked at him with pleading eyes, but Marcus was not interested in listening to what his father had to say. No, he was staring straight ahead, seeing his future, revisiting his plan. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact.

“Been working on it all night,” he said, then paused again.

“Son,” Tyrone tried to interrupt him a second time, but the low, steady drone of Marcus’s voice plowed on; not stopping, not yielding, not slowing.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

He said that, then paused, meditating on the words, concentrating on their meaning. Pauline still had not raised her head, and Tyrone continued to hold his arm around her shoulder, comforting her. Tyrone lifted his eyes and looked at his son standing before him. There seemed to be in him an impulse to say something, but instead, he closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Marcus glanced at his parents, then away. Inside his mind, he willed himself strong. He took a deep breath, then concentrated on the words, visualizing the passage. He heard himself speaking in a language not his own, repeating rote words and phrases with which heretofore he had been unfamiliar.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, feeling the power of the words. No, he was not afraid. Not now. Not anymore…. “He leadeth me beside the still waters …” He paused again, listening to the words, drawing strength from them. His mind was free, his spirit soaring…. “He restoreth my soul … He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of tho evil: for Thou art with me …” He lowered his eyes and paused, allowing the words to resonate off the walls and throughout the room for all to hear. Yes, there was something in him now, something in which he believed that propelled him beyond this place and these men, and this thing which on tomorrow would happen…. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …” He paused again. His lips began to quiver; his eyes became misty. No, he would not cry. Marcus bowed his head, then concentrated again, hearing that voice inside himself leading him onward. He took a deep breath, summoning the courage
to continue…. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” He felt himself becoming full, emotional. He closed his eyes and in the darkness of the moment found that calmness for which he searched. His voice relaxed, and he spoke again in a soft, rhythmic whisper…. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” He emphasized the word life, then raised his head, opened his eyes, and gazed at his mother with strong, assuring eyes devoid of doubt, filled with certainty…. “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Tyrone rose and went to the far corner and turned his back, sobbing. Marcus, looking at him, could see his back twitching, his shoulders jumping. And then, in the next moment, his eyes strayed from his father to his mother. He looked at her, and for the first time, she was looking directly at him.

“Mama,” he called to her gently. “Do you still believe in those words?”

She nodded.

“You really believe?”

She nodded again, and he rose and moved next to her. In him was the desire to release her from her pain. To give her back what his ordeal had taken from her. His life was over. Soon to be snuffed out. But she had to live on. In spite of all that had transpired, and all that would transpire, she had to rise the day after tomorrow and live. He looked at her, and somehow he sensed that his was the easy part. He had but to show up tomorrow and follow the script. And when the end came, he would have peace. But for her, there would be no peace, only pain, and angst, and regret, and sadness. And all that she would have to hold on to would be that which he gave her now. He paused again, searching his
soul for something he could say to her that would grant her the peace that he so believed, in a few hours, would be his. He took her hands and looked deep into her eyes.

“Then, Mama,” he said softly. “I need you to do me a favor … I need you to accept this.”

“No,” Tyrone protested. He started back toward the table; but before he reached them, Pauline’s lips parted, and she spoke for the first time.

“I wish I wouldn’t’ve never sent you to that store,” she said. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, crying. Marcus put his arms around her.

“Mama, you ain’t the blame for this,” he said. He held her tight, feeling her face against his chest, her warm tears against his skin. “Mama,” he called to her softly, “I don’t want you to cry no more.” He began to gently caress her arm, still trying to reassure her. “Mama,” he spoke in a whisper, “I done made peace with this … And I want you to do the same … I can’t go unless I know you okay.”

“Son,” Tyrone called to him, his voice trembling.

Marcus ignored him. He had to make his mother understand how he felt.

“Mama … I need to hear you say you okay.”

Pauline pulled away from him and looked up but did not speak. Her hands began to tremble; her body began to shake.

“No,” Tyrone said.

“It’s all right, Mama.” He squeezed her hands in his own, then rubbed them gently, lovingly. “I ain’t scared no more … I done made peace … I’m ready … I’m ready … I’m ready.”

“No,” Tyrone said again.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m all right now … really … I’m
not just saying it. It’s okay. Ain’t no need to cry. We’ll see each other again someday.”

“No,” Tyrone interrupted him. “Son, don’t talk like this … we close … that girl … she was seeing a black fella … a black fella name P. K. He did it. He the one. Son, do you know him? Do you know anybody named P. K.?”

“Don’t want to talk about that no more,” Marcus said.

“But, son—”

“No, Papa. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to spend whatever time I got left with you and Mama.”

“But, son—”

“No, Papa.” He paused, then looked his father in the eye. “I’m a man, Papa. Just like you. I’m a grown man. But I can’t go to bed tonight hoping, then get up and face what I got to face tomorrow. No, Papa, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Son.”

“No, Papa,” he said. “I ain’t gone talk about it no more. And I ain’t gone think about it no more. I’m gone die tomorrow. And ain’t nothing nobody can do about it. I just want to enjoy what time we have left.”

“Don’t talk like this.”

“Ain’t no other way to talk.”

“Son.”

“No, Papa. No.”

Marcus stood up, not wanting to say any more. His eyes became misty. He did not want to cry. He would not let himself cry.

“Son—”

“Papa, I’m glad I got a chance to see you again,” he said. “I been thinking about you all these years. Wanting to see you. Wanting to talk to you. Wanting to know you. I’m just glad I got a chance … before I had to go.”

Tyrone didn’t respond. He wept openly.

“And, Papa, thank you for trying.”

Tyrone nodded, then dropped his head, and Marcus turned his attention to his mother. Her sad eyes were full of pain, anguish.

“Mama, I want you to go on,” he said. “And I want you and Papa to try to work things out. I want our family to survive.”

Tyrone moved next to Pauline, and they put their arms around each other, crying. Marcus stepped just beyond the table. He looked at his parents embraced. The corner of his lip turned up, and he smiled a faint smile. He looked at the guard, and the guard nodded.

“Guess that’s it,” Marcus said.

Tyrone released his wife as Marcus made his way around the table, and when he was directly opposite his mother, he bent at the waist and gently kissed her on the cheek, then moved his lips close to her ear whispering, “I love you, Mama.”

Instantly, he felt her tremble. Then he felt her arms around him, pulling him close, holding him tight.

“I love you, too,” she said, sobbing. “You always remember that, son. No matter what … Your mama loves you.”

“I will, Mama,” he said. “I will.”

“Son, anything I can do for you?” Tyrone asked.

“Take care of my Mama,” Marcus said.

Tyrone nodded, and then the two men embraced.

“Bye, Papa,” Marcus said, pushing away.

“Bye, son.”

“Bye, Mama.”

“Bye, son.”

“I love you.”

“We love you, too.”

O
utside the room, Tyrone could hear the jingling of keys and the fading footsteps of his condemned son striking the hard corridor floor. Then he heard the halls grow quiet. He saw Pauline lean her head upon the table, crying. Gloom and doom swept him, and he closed his eyes against the light, hoping to still the spinning room and quell the waning feeling that the sun was setting, and the sky was falling, and the bowels of the earth were opening, readying themselves to swallow for all eternity that which was his. He opened his eyes and felt himself raging. Raging against his country, his people, his God, his soul, his life.