Authors: Ernest Hill
But what of her son? Where was he? Why didn’t
Beggar Man know him? And how would a boy like this know a girl like that?
He raised his hand back and knocked again.
“Come on,” he mumbled to himself. “Come on. Come on. Open the door.”
Nervous, he began to rock from side to side. He looked toward the windows. The curtains were drawn.
Maybe she’s not at home
, he thought.
Oh, please let her be home. Please let her be home
. Inside the house he heard feet shuffling. Yes, from what he knew of her, he could imagine her son. A young, illegitimate thug not afraid to cross the sacred, age-old boundaries into the forbidden world of white flesh. Yes, in his mind, it all made sense. The secrecy, the intrigue, the violence, the rage, the death. Yes, P. K. It all made sense. Truly, the acorn had not fallen far from the tree. Impatient, he raised his hand and knocked again. He heard chains rattling; then the door flew open. She had been asleep. The skin on the left side of her face was creased. Her eyes were glazed.
“What you want?” she said, not looking directly at him. Her speech was slurred. She looked high. Drunk.
“Sybil Kane,” he said, uncertain. She looked much older than he remembered. He was not sure.
“Who wants to know?” she said, swaying slightly. Her equilibrium was off. She was tipsy.
“Sybil, it’s me, Tyrone Stokes.”
Her unsteady head bobbed, and she looked at him, then smiled slyly.
“How you doing, Tyrone?” She slurred his name, and he sensed that in her present condition she neither remembered nor recognized him. “I was just ‘bout to go over to the Silver Dollar,” she said. “Why don’t you come on to the Silver Dollar with me and buy your cousin a beer?”
“You got company?”
He looked past her trying to see. He wanted to go inside. She was drunk. And being seen with her was a parole violation.
“Ain’t got no company,” she said. “Ain’t had no company all day.”
Tyrone pushed past her, and she followed him, frustrated.
“Told you I was fixing to go to the Silver Dollar,” she said.
“Need to talk to you,” he said.
“Give me two dollars,” she said. “Give your cousin two dollars so she can buy herself a beer.”
“Sybil,” he called her name.
“What?” she said.
“Where Mr. Kane?” he asked. Something cautioned him to be careful. He looked around quickly, trying to make sure they were alone.
“Mr. Kane,” she said. “Only Mr. Kane I know at home with Mama.”
“Your husband,” he said. “I’m talking ‘bout your ole man.”
“Nigger, you know I ain’t got no husband.”
“What about your son?” he said. “He home?”
“Naw.”
“Where he at?”
“What you want with him?” she wanted to know.
“Want to ask him a few questions, that’s all.”
“You with the police now?”
“Naw, Sybil. Stop talking crazy. You know I ain’t with no police.”
“He did something to you?” she asked.
“Just want to talk to him, that’s all.”
“He in trouble?” she asked. “Lawd, what that boy done got into now?”
“Told you I just want to talk to ‘im.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know where that boy is.”
“He working?”
“Working,” she said. “That hay burner? Hunh, that thang don’t work.”
“Well, where is he? I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
“Give me two dollars,” she said.
“What?”
“Come on,” she pleaded. “Buy your cousin a beer.”
“Sybil,” he said. “Your son. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That boy got a mind of his own. All I know is when he here, he here, and when he ain’t, he ain’t.”
“Where he hang out?”
Suddenly, she swayed as if she was going to fall. She grabbed her head.
“Sybil.” He caught her by the arm and steadied her.
She laughed, drunk, then puckered her lips and moved toward him.
“Tyrone, where you been all this time?” she said, still talking out of her mind. “Why you ain’t been by to see me. Hunh? Why you do me this way, Tyrone. Why?”
“Sybil!” He pushed her away, then shook her hard. “Sybil! Girl, you drunk.”
“I ain’t drunk,” she said. “But I been dranking.” She paused, staggering. “Come on … Let’s go to the Silver Dollar. Come on, Tyrone … Buy your cousin a beer.”
“Where P. K.?” he snapped angrily.
“Who?”
“Your boy,” he said. “Where is he?”
“What you call him?” she asked.
“P. K.,” he repeated the initials.
“P. K.,” she said, then fell into a hysterical laugh. Yes, she was drunk. Silly drunk. “Why you call him that? Why you call him P. K.?”
“Ain’t that his name?” Tyrone asked, irritated.
“Naw,” she said. “Not P. K., stupid. That boy name Thomas Elroy Kane. T. K., not P. K.”
“T. K.,” he mumbled, shocked.
“Yeah, T. K.”
Maybe he had heard the girl wrong. Maybe Terri had said T. K., not P. K. Maybe he had just heard her wrong. Yes, maybe that was it. He looked at Sybil with hopeful eyes.
“Your son,” he said. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen,” she said. “Least he was last time I checked.”
Suddenly, he felt dizzy, nauseous. It was the wrong person. He was right back where he started. Oh, he was running in circles. What if he could not find him? What if he could not find the killer before it was too late? He felt like leaving, but he did not know where to go. He turned to leave, and Sybil tried to stop him.
“Tyrone!” she shouted his name.
He heard her but did not stop.
“You going to the Silver Dollar?”
He didn’t answer. He pulled the door open and stepped outside.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait … Don’t leave me … Let me get my shoes.”
He went to his truck and climbed inside. He started the engine. He saw Sybil scurry out of the house and onto the porch, her shoes in hand.
“Wait,” he heard her scream as he pulled away. “Buy your cousin a beer.”
I
t was almost eight o’clock when he made it home. His mother, Sarah Ann, and René were all sitting on the porch waiting when he arrived. He parked the truck, and as he made his way to the porch, he could feel their eyes on him. He was tired. He wanted to be alone. He needed to think. He mounted the steps, then opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
“How y’all doing?” He spoke, then paused. He was anxious. He did not feel like talking. He wanted to go inside.
“How y’all doing?” René snapped. She looked at him hard, angry. “That’s all you got to say? Mama sitting here done worried herself near ‘bout half to death. And you talking ‘bout how y’all doing. Boy, where you been?”
“René!” Sarah Ann said.
“René nothing,” René said. “Boy, you heard me. Where you been all this time? It’s almost eight o’clock. Where you been?”
“What’s it to you?” he asked. “You ain’t my mama.”
“Leave him be, René,” his mother said. “He here now … That’s all that matter. Ain’t no sense in carrying on so.”
“You been to that parole office?” René interrupted. “You been to that parole office like I told you?”
“René, please,” Sarah Ann said again.
“Have you?” René said, ignoring her.
“Didn’t I say I was going?” Tyrone snapped.
“You say a lot of things,” René told him. “But what you say and what you do is two different things.”
“René, why don’t you go on in the house,” Sarah Ann suggested. “Why don’t you go in the house so Mama can talk to Tyrone.”
“I ain’t going nowhere,” René said.
There was silence.
“Tyrone, is everything all right?” Sarah Ann asked.
“Everything fine,” he said. He looked at the door. He wanted to go in the house. He wanted to be alone.
“That’s all you gone say,” René snapped. “Everything fine. Folks waiting on you half the night, and that’s all you gone say.”
“What you want me to say, René?”
“If you had any sense, you’d tell your mama what them folks said, seeing how they done called here and worried her half to death.”
“If you’d shut your big mouth, maybe I would.”
“Both of y’all need to shut up,” Sarah Ann said. “If y’all can’t do no better than this, both of you need to shut up.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, Sarah Ann,” René said angrily. “I’m grown. Don’t you dare tell me to shut up.”
“Tyrone, honey, you sho’
everything all right?” Sarah Ann asked, intentionally ignoring René and attempting to change the tenor of the conversation.
“Honey!” René exclaimed. “Honey!”
“Everything all right, Sarah Ann,” he said. “My parole officer blasted me out. But everything fine. She just told me what I need to do … That’s all….”
His voice trailed off, and he stopped talking, then looked away. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be alone. There was an awkward silence.
“They ain’t talking ‘bout locking you back up, is they?” His mother broke the silence. He turned to her. She looked scared, worried.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “They ain’t said nothing like that … nothing like that at all.”
“Well, thank Gawd,” she said. “Thank Gawd.”
He looked toward the street, then back toward his mother.
“Anybody call here for me?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” she said. “Sarah Ann, anybody called for your brother since you been here?”
“No, ma’am,” Sarah Ann said. “Nobody but that parole officer.”
Tyrone looked at her, then away. Where was Beggar Man? What was taking him so long? He looked at his watch and made a quick decision. If Beggar Man did not call in the next few minutes, he was going to call him.
“You expecting a phone call?” René smarted.
He looked at her but did not answer.
“Somebody from the Silver Dollar, I guess.” She continued to press the conversation. “One of yo’ old drinking buddies, hunh?”
“The Silver Dollar,” his mama said, alarmed. “Baby, you ain’t fooling ‘round that old place again, is you? Please tell me you ain’t fooling ‘round that old place.”
“Yeah, Tyrone, tell her,” René said. “Tell her so we all can know how much you done changed. Go on. Tell her.”
Tyrone did not respond.
“Ask him if he been drinking, Mama,” René said. “Go on … ask him. Ask him if he been drinking.”
“René, why don’t you shut your mouth?” Tyrone said.
“Why don’t you answer Mama’s question?” René retorted.
His mother looked at him with pleading eyes.
“Baby, you ain’t been drinking, is you?” She paused, but Tyrone did not answer. “You told me you quit,” she said. “You is done quit, ain’t you?”
“Quit!” René said. “Smell his breath, Mama. Smell his breath and see if it don’t smell like a distillery.”
“Lawd Jesus!” his mother shouted. “It’s true. It’s true. This child drinking again. Help me, Master. Help me, Master.”
“Mama, I just had one drink,” he confessed. “Just one drink to calm my nerves. But I ain’t drinking. I swear. I ain’t.”
“That’s how it start,” René said. “One little drink at a time. That’s just how it start.”
“Shut up, René,” Tyrone shouted.
“First you got to have a drink to calm yo’ nerves,” René said, ignoring him.
“I mean it, René, shut up.”
“Then you got to have one to help you get you through the day.”
“Mama, don’t listen to her,” Tyrone said. “She just trying to start some mess. That’s all.”
“Then you got to have one to help you go to sleep.”
“René!” Sarah Ann shouted. “Please.”
“Then you got to have one to help you wake up.”
“Shut up, René,” Tyrone said. “I mean it … shut your mouth.”
“Then you just got to have one,” René continued.
“Yeah, Mama, that’s just how it start. Then it’s any little excuse to drink.”
“I ain’t able,” his mother said. “Lawd knows I ain’t able.”
“Don’t listen to her, Mama,” Tyrone said again. “She don’t know what she talking about. She just trying to start mess.”
“What you doing at the Silver Dollar?” his mother asked. “That’s just asking fo’ trouble. You ain’t got no business over there.”
“Mama, I just needed some information,” he tried to explain.
“What kind of information?”
“About Marcus,” he said.
“He lying,” René said. “He was over there drinking.”
“René, why don’t you shut yo’ mouth?” Tyrone said again.
But before she could answer, an unknown car pulled to the shoulder in front of their house and stopped. Tyrone squinted, looking. It was Beggar Man. Tyrone turned to leave, but René stopped him.
“Guess he looking for you,” she smarted.
Tyrone didn’t answer.
René looked out toward the car, and when she recognized Beggar Man from the club, she snapped to her feet.
“Ah no,” she said. “You ain’t gone have them hoodlums coming ‘round here worrying Mama. You hear me?”
There was silence.
“Tyrone, you hear me?”
Without answering her, he pushed the door open and walked out to the car and leaned against the window.
“What’s the word?” he said, then waited.
Beggar Man shook his head. “No dice, man.”
Tyrone looked at him, dejected.
“Cat don’t exist, Ty,” Beggar Man said. “I checked everywhere. He just don’t exist.”
“Man, how can that be?” Tyrone wanted to know.
“You sho’ you got his name right?”
“P. K.,” Tyrone repeated the name. “That’s what she said.”
“You positive?”
“Man, I’m positive.”
Beggar Man shook his head and looked away.
“He don’t exist, Ty.”
“He exist,” Tyrone said. “We just can’t find him.”
Beggar paused, thinking.
“Maybe his name ain’t P. K. Maybe that’s just what she called him.”
“Maybe,” Tyrone said. “But I don’t think so.”
“Wished we knew something about him.”
“I told you all I know.”
There was silence.
“What else you know about her?”
“Not much,” Tyrone said. “Why?”
“If we knew anything,” Beggar Man began. “Where they met? Where they hung out? What kind of work he do? What kind of work she do? Anything, Ty. Anything at all. I could find him. I could find him quicker than you could bat a eye.”