Authors: Ernest Hill
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, then politely nodded his head.
“You looking for work?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” he said, then looked away, uncomfortable. There was an empty chair directly across from her; but she did not invite him to sit, nor did he expect her to. In fact, he was amazed that she had ignored old, well-established social mores and invited him this deep into her sanctuary.
“Well, what can I do for you?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He raised an awkward hand to his mouth and cleared his clogged throat.
“There was a crime committed outside your window,” he said. “And I was wondering if you saw anything.”
“I haven’t heard of any crime,” she said, puzzled. “What crime are you referencing?”
“Young girl was abducted.” He paused to gauge her reaction. She sat poker faced, listening intently. “A white girl,” he said. “They say a local black boy did it.”
Behind him he heard the maid scurrying about nervously.
“Who are you?” Miss Mabel asked.
“Just an interested citizen.”
“Wasn’t that boy named Stokes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t you say your name was Stokes?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“You related?”
“Yes, ma’am. He my son.”
“You talked to the law?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet.”
“You best talk to the law,” she said. “I can’t help you.”
“So, you didn’t see anything?”
“Didn’t see a thing,” she said.
“Could anyone else have seen anything? Maybe the maid?”
Behind him, he heard the maid fumble something.
“She didn’t see anything either,” Miss Mabel said.
He started to asked her if she was sure, but reconsidered. To do so would be deemed an insult. He turned and looked at the maid, but she quickly averted her eyes. He looked at Miss Mabel again, and her eyes told him that the conversation was over.
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she said dryly, then politely said, “Irene, show the gentleman out.”
In silence, he followed Irene out of the room and into the hall. Near the front door, he paused and turned to her and whispered, “Can I talk to you a minute?”
She looked around, wide-eyed.
“Can’t talk right now,” she said.
“But, ma’am, it’s important.”
“Miss Mabel don’t take kindly to socializing on the job,” she whispered.
“Ma’am—”
“Can’t talk now,” she whispered forcefully. “Get off at three.”
“Can I talk to you then?”
She nodded and turned to leave.
“Ma’am,” he called to her.
“You best go now,” she said. “ ‘Fo Miss Mabel get riled.”
He exited the house onto the steps, and she closed
the door behind him. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He stood upon the stoop, pondering what to do next. He looked toward Main Street. A police car passed. Suddenly, an eerie feeling engulfed him, and he remembered his aunt’s stern admonition: “Dot your i’s and cross your t’s…. Them people ain’t playing with you.”
The thought cleared his confused mind, and he formulated a plan. First, he would renew his driver’s license. Then he would grab a quick bite to eat. By that time, it should be time to meet with Irene, the maid.
He descended the steps and walked halfway to his truck, then stopped and looked back at the stop sign, then at the window. Yes, she could have seen something. He looked at the stop sign a second time, then mumbled softly to himself: “God, please let her have seen something.”
Inside the truck, he drove to the intersection and braked to a halt at the stop sign, pondering. Why would anyone abduct someone here? It was too close to Main Street. He turned left to make the block. Yes, there were too many houses. Too much traffic. Too many people. And too little cover. It just did not make sense. A black boy and a white girl in a truck this close to town. It just did not make sense. He turned right at the intersection and drove the short distance back to Main Street. He turned left on Main Street and drove toward the Department of Motor Vehicles, more convinced than ever that this thing could not have happened the way it had been portrayed. It just couldn’t have.
At the Department of Motor Vehicles, he entered the crowded room and stood at the back of the line, looking about. Before his incarceration, the DMV had been located on the first floor of the courthouse, but now it had been moved to the opposite end of town
and was located in the building that had once been the laundromat. The place was not fancy. There was a large plate glass window that spanned the length of the front wall. Several rows of chairs were aligned on the right side of the room, just beyond the entrance. The counter held two clerk stations positioned near the center. At the far end was a camera mounted on a tripod. A few feet in front of the camera was a small wooden stool, behind which stood a large white screen. In the far corner two desks, the kind you usually see in a classroom, were occupied by would-be drivers taking the written portion of the driver’s exam. The young white boy appeared to be sixteen, maybe seventeen. The other was an older white man in his late thirties or early forties.
High upon the wall, the clock ticked away the minutes. Tyrone looked at it. It was noon. He glanced around the room at the waiting people. A rather robust white woman was sitting in the first row, on the end seat, bouncing a crying infant on her knee while clutching a white envelope, which more than likely had brought her to the DMV. Obviously, she had been waiting a while, and her patience was wearing thin. Two rotund white men were standing in the far corner, discussing the price of soybeans and complaining about the time they had wasted this morning. Time that should have been spent in the fields; they were farmers. One woman was reading a book. Another was writing something; it could have been a grocery list. But most were sitting zombielike, occasionally fidgeting in their chairs, staring straight ahead, waiting.
When he finally reached the clerk, he was told that since his license had expired, he was required by law to undergo the entire process anew. The test could be administered today; however, there was at least a forty-five
minute wait before he could even sit for the written exam. He could wait or come back tomorrow. It was up to him.
Though the wait was lengthy, he did not leave; instead, he sat quietly in a corner, next to a window, studying a driver’s manual and intermittently looking dreamily out into the streets, wondering whether or not things would pan out. He had raised his head to ponder the answer to one of the questions when across the street, his gaze fell on an older white man wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase, scurrying down the sidewalk. Instantly, he thought of Johnson. Why hadn’t he questioned the maid? The thought disgusted him. Involuntarily, he began to fidget in his chair, agitated. In his mind flashed a scene, and suddenly he was no longer there. A large white screen had been lowered, before which he sat, watching again that which had already unfolded. He saw Marcus dragged into a courtroom, handcuffed and shackled, standing before the judge, confused, afraid. He heard the judge read the charges. He saw Marcus staring about, dumbfounded. He was in a fight, the rules of which he did not understand, using weapons with which he was unfamiliar. He heard the judge again.
“How do you plead?”
He saw Marcus look at Captain Jack for advice, then look away, confused. The process was fast and beyond him. His lips parted, and he mumbled, “Not guilty.”
The words came from his mouth, not his brain. He wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t think. Fear had rendered him insane. Shock had rendered him mute. Tyrone saw Captain Jack standing next to him, passive, defeated.
Inside the DMV, Tyrone heard the clerk call a name. He turned and watched the large lady up front stand,
position the infant in her arms, and move to the counter. He glanced down at the book, then back out of the window. Why hadn’t Captain Jack questioned the maid? Why?
Tightness gripped his head. It began to ache. He looked at his watch again. In his mind, he wished time forward. He was anxious to talk to the maid, and at the same time afraid to imagine the outcome. For a long time, he stared at the sample test booklet, examining questions and listening to the sound of strange names being called, until finally, he heard his own. He rose from his seat, and instantly, an eerie silence gripped the room. He looked about cautiously. Yes, they recognized his name, and yes, they were staring at him. He moved stiff legged toward the counter until he was face-to-face with the young clerk.
“Mr. Stokes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can take your test now.”
She handed him a pencil and a test booklet and pointed him toward an empty desk. He took a seat and glanced thoughtfully at the clock, then broke the seal on the test booklet and tried to begin. He stared at the words on the page before him, but he could not concentrate. His eyes would not focus. The words seemed blurred; the questions, obscure. He leaned forward, placed both elbows on the desk, and rested his bowed head against the palms of his hands. He stared at the exam, slowly moving his lips as he repeatedly reread the same question, trying desperately to focus his troubled mind long enough to complete the task before him. He closed his eyes, concentrated a moment, then opened them and with a nervous hand marked an unsure answer. He had just begun to read the next question when
a loud, shrill wail made him look up. The infant was crying again. His mother had risen to her feet, and the child’s arms were draped about her neck, and his head resting on her shoulder. She was bouncing him up and down and gently patting his back with her hand while softly repeating, “Don’t cry, honey. Mama’s here. Don’t cry. “
His concentration broken, Tyrone stared blankly at the infant, wondering what his son was doing at this very moment. Was he crying? Was he longing to lay his head on his mother’s shoulder? Was he yearning to be comforted by her touch and calmed by the sound of her reassuring voice? Or did he realize that the law had him, and its grip was so tight that neither touches nor words nor his mother’s love could comfort him now?
Suddenly, Tyrone felt more intensely the ache of his weary heart. He looked at the clock again. He wanted to rise from his seat and rush from this place. He should be doing something. Yet, there was nothing to do now but wait.
In spite of his tattered nerves, he passed the written exam, then waited another half hour for the driving instructor to return. Then he took and passed the driver’s test, had his photograph taken, and once his license was processed, drove to the diner, grabbed a quick bite to eat, then drove back to meet the maid.
When he arrived, she wasn’t at work, but had walked across the street and was sitting on a bench in front of the store, waiting. He knew that she was waiting for him, but the way she had positioned her purse and other belongings on the bench next to her, it appeared as if she was waiting on a ride to take her home. In an effort to be discreet, he didn’t park near the bench. Instead, he drove his truck to the opposite side of the store and parked near the street. When he was sure that
no one was watching, he walked over and stood next to her.
“Miss Irene,” he spoke.
“Mr. Stokes.”
“Be all right to talk here?” he asked.
“This be fine,” she said. “I sats here sometimes and wait for my husband to pick me up. He work down yonder at the locker plant. Got to pass by here anyway. Besides, he ain’t too particular ‘bout coming over to Miss Mabel’s.”
“Well, I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Don’t mind talking ‘til he get here. Ought to be ten, fifteen minutes yet.”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you ‘bout that night.”
“What about it?”
“Miss Mabel said you didn’t see nothing.”
“She don’t know what I seen. How is she gone tell you what I seen?”
“Did you see anything?”
She paused and looked around before she answered.
“I’m gone tell you what I seen,” she said. “But after I tell it to you, I ain’t gone tell it no mo’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What did you see?”
“I was satting in the parlor, looking out the window.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The room we was all in a little while ago.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What you see?”
“Seen that gal when she come ‘round that corner yonder.”
“The girl that was killed?”
“That right,” she said. “Normally, I wouldn’t’ve paid her no ‘tention; but it was raining, and I was wondering whose child that was walking in the rain like that.” She paused. “And Lord, the way that gal was dressed. Little ole shorts on. Butt hanging out. And my she was twisting.
Twisting like it wasn’t no tomorrow. Well, directly a truck come along and stopped at that sign yonder and waited like he was gone give her a ride. When she seen the truck, she come up on the driver’s side. And look like she said something to him.”
“That’s when he grabbed her?”
“He ain’t did no such thang. That gal walked ‘round that truck, opened the door, and got in on her own accord.”
“Are you sure?”
“Honey, I was sitting right there looking at her.”
“What color was the truck?”
“Blue.”
“Police report say the truck was black.”
“Don’t care what it say. I seen that truck when it passed under that light yonder. It stopped, and they talked like they knowed each other. Then she got in, and they drove off.”
He felt his head spin.
“Witnesses say she struggled.”
“Didn’t do no such thang. I’m telling you they talked like they knowed one another. Then she opened the door and got in.”
A sensation gripped him.
“Then, my son didn’t do it.”
“Can’t say whether he did it or not. ‘Cause I don’t know that. But I do know what I saw.”
“And the truck was blue?”
“That’s right.”
“You sure it wasn’t black?”
“It was blue,” she said. “Dark blue.”
“You positive?”
“Honey, I know what I seen. That child got in a truck sho’ nuff, but it was blue. May’ve looked black; but it wasn’t, it was blue with them ole white tires on it.”