Cry Me A River Read Online Free Page B

the open tomb made him uneasy, and he pressed on, navigating his way between one headstone after another until he finally stood before a well-manicured grave.
    “Hi, Papa,” he said, then lowered himself to the ground, pulled his feet underneath him, and looked away. From where he sat, he could see a small herd of cows grazing in the lush green pasture just east of the graveyard, and beyond the pasture, he could hear the low, dull roar of a tractor plowing in one of the adjacentfields. On the far end, he could see the old man everyone called Dirty Red. He had been mowing the cemetery; but it was breaktime now, and he had parked the bush hog underneath a tree and was sitting on the ground resting.
    Just beyond the headstone marking his father’s grave, he saw a tiny rabbit emerge from the sparse woods, pause, rise to its hind legs, and begin nibbling on the leaves of one of the low-hanging branches. The sight of the small furry animal caused him to smile. It was ironic, but the cemetery, this most dreaded place of death, calmed him. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so tranquil.
    “You got a nice spot here, Papa,” he said, glancing at the headstone, then looking away. Two black men had entered the cemetery and were inspecting the grave that had been opened. One of them wore a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and the other wore a dark blue jumpsuit.
    “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your funeral … I wanted to pay my respects. But … I—”
    Tyrone’s voice became heavy. His eyes became full. A tear fell from one eye, then the other. He picked up a small stone from the graveside and threw it into the woods. The sound of the stone tearing through the trees startled the rabbit. It fell to its feet, scampered a few paces to the right, paused, then disappeared into the darkness of the woods. Tyrone reached up and wiped his moist nose with the back of his hand. He filled his lungs with air and let out a deep sigh.
    “I didn’t want to disgrace the family no more than I already had by showing up at your funeral in handcuffs and chains.”
    Again, his misty eyes filled, and a long stream of tearsfell from the corners of his eyes. He paused a second time, took a deep breath, then compressed his lips and struggled to maintain control of his voice.
    “Mama, Sarah Ann, and René all doing fine. Mama and Sarah Ann act like they happy to see me, but René act like she don’t know if she ought to be happy I’m out or scared I’m gone do something else to hurt the family.”
    Tyrone was interrupted by the roar of an engine. Breaktime was over, and Dirty Red had climbed atop the little red tractor and resumed his work. It was hot, and though he had not removed his shirt, he had unbuttoned it down the front and pulled it out of his pants. He did not have on work gloves, but he was wearing a straw hat on his head and a pair of dark shades over his eyes. A slight breeze was blowing, and Tyrone could smell the sweet fragrance of the freshly cut grass riding the wind, scenting the air. Involuntarily, his gaze fell on the tombstone, and inside his head, he heard himself reading:
Albert Stokes. October 22, 1923-May 16, 1997
.
    Suddenly, his hands began to shake; his lips began to quiver. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He let out a deep sigh, then paused, trying to compose himself. He stared in the direction of the woods, but he was not seeing them. He was imagining his dead father, dressed in his favorite suit, lying in a coffin, his eyes closed, his arms at his sides.
    “Aw, Papa,” he said. “I need you so much … Why did you have to die?” The anger came from a place deep inside of him. A place that he no longer recognized. “Why did you leave me?” A floodgate had been opened; now he sobbed heavily.
    His mind began to whirl; his head began to ache. He snapped to his feet and turned away from the grave.Was this the fate that awaited his son? Would his body soon be laid to rest in a place like this,