The Rock and the River

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

AUTHOR'S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
TRIED TO PRETEND I WAS SOMEWHERE ELSE
. The long morning of marching was stretching into an even longer afternoon of standing still. It was a peaceful protest; orderly and insistent, like the ticking of a clock. Just the way Father always wanted. He stood up at the front of the throng, feeding the crowd with his words. The podium shook under the pounding of his fist. Mama stood behind him, where she always stood, hands folded, lashes low, her stillness a mirror for his fervor. On either side of them, Ty and Jerry, Father's security team, looked like twin linebacker mountains.

The crowd spread away from the courthouse steps and filled two city blocks—but that was nothing. I'd been to marches that filled ten. The crowd was heated as always, but the warmth didn't reach inside me. The February air had me shivering. I pulled my coat tighter and leaned into my brother.

Above us, the Chicago skyline loomed against gray clouds. Rough concrete pillars stood proud above the courthouse steps, looking weathered and bored, like they were tired of carrying the weight of the law on their shoulders. Just staring at the pillars made me want to rest. With my fingertip in the air and one eye closed, I traced the line of the rooftops. I closed my ears to whatever Father was saying. Chances were, I'd heard it before.

News cameramen pushed past us to the front of the barricades, shouting, “Coming through,” as they tromped on toes and threw elbows. All their cameras pointed at Father. I was glad to be away from the glaring lenses.

People shifted around me. Everyone's space invaded everyone else's, and the ripple effect separated me from my brother.

“Stick,” I called, grabbing for his arm. My fingers brushed his sleeve.

Stick turned. “What?”

A couple of people pushed between us. Suddenly I hated the crowds, hated the way everyone pressed up against one another. My heart beat in rhythm with the swaying of shoulders in front of me; out of control.

Stick pushed through to stand beside me. “What is it, Sam?” he asked.

“Nothing, never mind.” I couldn't explain it. And I
couldn't say I'd gotten scared for no reason. That might have been okay when I was little, but not at thirteen. I'd just rather have been anywhere else than the middle of this street on a cold, wet Saturday afternoon.

Stick stared at me. After a moment, he grinned. “What, you wanna bail?”

“Yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Right.” Not even Stick had ever dared leave in the middle of one of Father's demonstrations.

The crowd pressed in, driving us even farther from the podium.

“Just say the word, my man. They'll never miss us.”

I shook my head. Tempting, but impossible.

The crowd lurched forward. “That's right!” they yelled, in answer to something Father said. I tuned in for a second. He was up to the part about how it was 1968, we'd come so far but had so much further to go…and on and on.

So here we all were.

Here we'd all been for as long as I could remember.

I was tired of marching, of protesting. Of leaning my back against a wall and expecting the wall to move. I wanted to rest.

“Stick,” I said. “I want to go home.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.” I shivered and glanced around. Stick smiled and slung his arm across my shoulders.
The thick wall of his coat sleeve warmed my ears. “I can take the heat if you can,” he said.

Father would see us leave. He had this uncanny sixth sense—he always knew when we disobeyed him. There'd be hell to pay. But, right then, I didn't care. Just once, I wanted to do something unexpected.

“Let's get out of here,” I said.

Stick grinned. “That's my boy,” he said, thumping my shoulder. Stick liked to shake things up. I always followed the rules and did what I was supposed to. Still, I was so cold, and tired of leaning against this wall. Father would say, you get enough people to lean, and the wall will move. I used to believe it, but I just wasn't sure anymore.

“C'mon,” Stick said. He plowed through the crowd. I followed, grabbing the back of his coat and stumbling in his wake. The cheers rose above us as we moved farther and farther from Father's stage.

Then, different sounds surfaced amid the crowd's claps and cheering. Grunting. The thumping of fist to flesh. Fight sounds. Stick slowed.

“What the hell?” he shouted. He tore out of my grip and rushed forward. A group of white men armed with bats, bottles, and sticks were beating on people at the edge of the crowd. The protesters cried out and shielded themselves with their arms.

Stick burst forward and grabbed one of the white men, pulling him off a gray-haired woman who dropped, crying, to the ground. The man slammed an elbow into Stick's bony chest. Stick groaned, then grabbed the man by the hair and punched him in the face.

People bumped me from all sides, but I couldn't move. Several protesters had fallen to the ground, and two came crawling toward me, scrambling to get out of the way.

“We will walk hand in hand,” Father's voice intoned above the fray. “We will push forward step by step until they see the truth: that all men are created equal, and should be equal under the law.” I turned to look toward Father, but three helmeted cops were pushing their way through the crowd to get to the fight.

“Stick! The cops!” I shouted. His head snapped up. In that split second, the man fighting with him bent down and seized the neck of a broken bottle from the ground. “No!” I cried. The man swung and the bottle connected with Stick's temple. Stick fell to the ground, and the man stumbled away.

I grabbed Stick's shoulders. His forehead was bleeding, but he sat up and took my hand.

“We've got to get out of here,” I said as the cops drew closer. The mass of people parted to let them through.

Stick and I glanced at each other, then I pulled him up and we bolted the other way. When the cops came, it
wouldn't matter who had started it. It would always be us up against the bricks.

We ran several blocks, ducking around corners until the sounds of the crowd faded behind us. I was ready to run all the way home, if I had to.

“Wait.” Stick stopped and leaned his arm against the side of a building. He bent over, breathing hard. I circled around. “Far enough,” he huffed. But Stick could run farther and faster than anyone I knew, certainly than me.

The gash on Stick's forehead dripped blood over his brow and along his cheek. He swiped the thick red stream away from his eye with the back of his wrist.

“I think we have to go to the hospital,” I said, looking closer at his head. “There might be glass in there, or gravel.” One of Chicago's main hospitals was four or five blocks away, down toward the lakefront.

“It's fine,” he said, but he swayed and leaned back against the building.

“It's not fine.” I took his arm and put it over my shoulders. “Come on.”

 

I walked Stick in through the emergency entrance. The doors slid open for us, and the steady bustle of the city streets gave way to the squeak of gurney wheels and the impatient chattering of waiting people.

People stared as we passed. There was a lot of blood now. On Stick, and on me, where he had leaned his head against me while we walked. Our shirts were stained red at the shoulders.

We approached the main desk. Two blond nurses stood behind the long, curved counter, talking. They looked up at us.

“What happened?” the younger nurse asked.

“He—had an accident,” I said. “A few blocks from here.”

The older nurse studied Stick's forehead, then looked back at me. Her eyes seemed to hover over the rim of her glasses.

“A few blocks from here?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “You protesting?”

“Yes, ma'am. He fell and hit his head. In the crowd.”

She pressed her lips together and the bun of hair atop her head appeared to tighten. “Well, you'll just have to wait,” she said, crossing thin arms over her chest. “We're full right now.” She bent forward and neatened a stack of papers on the desk.

The young nurse fiddled with the edge of her uniform pocket. Then she smoothed her hands over her full hips and spoke timidly. “I could take him to—”

“Have a seat in the chairs. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I started to move back toward the waiting area, but Stick shifted his weight and locked his arm tighter around me, keeping us in place. “Ask how long,” he murmured against my ear.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

She didn't look up from her charts. “We'll call you.”

“Is there a waiting list?” I said, addressing the young nurse this time. Her clear blue gaze reassured me somehow. “How many people are ahead of us?” I added. Stick grunted approval.

The young nurse came around the desk and laid her hand against Stick's cheek. She tilted his head gently to get a better look. “Well,” she said. “We need to get you washed up and stop this bleeding.

“I'll find a place for you, honey,” she added softly, avoiding the other nurse's eye. She rolled a wheelchair out from behind the desk and motioned Stick to sit in it. Then she pushed him away down a long hall and into a room. I started to follow.

“You wait right here,” the other nurse said. I turned back. She peered at me over her glasses; her eyes sharpened on me like a bird of prey spying a mouse.

“Where are your parents? You should call them.” She frowned.

“They're still at the demonstration.”

“Why weren't you with them?” she asked, eyebrows folding low. I shrugged. No point in trying to explain.

“Come with me.” I followed her down the long hall to another nurses' station. We passed the room where Stick was. The nurse was wiping the side of his face with a towel.

“Sit down here.” She pointed at a low stool next to the desk. “Can you write?”

“Yes.” I gritted my teeth as I sat down. The nurse pulled out a clipboard and slapped a pen on it.

“Fine. Fill this out.” She thrust the board at me. I took it, but my fingers trembled as I lifted the pen. I tipped it against the page and started to write the date, but it came out a squiggly mess.

“I thought you said you could write.”

I glared up at her. My jaw ached from holding my teeth together so hard. I tried to relax.

“I can. I will.” I didn't like her breathing down my neck. Maybe I could fill out the form if she'd back off a bit.

“Give me that.” She snatched back the pen and clipboard. I clasped my hands together to stop their trembling.

“Name?”

“Mine or his?”

She sighed. “His.”

I looked toward the door of the room where the nurses
had taken Stick. “Steven Tyrone Childs.” No one called him Stick but me.

The nurse wrote it down. “Age and birthday? His.”

“Seventeen. October 8, 1950. Is he going to be all right?”

“I'm sure he'll be fine,” she said, without looking up. “Parents' names?”

I took a deep breath. “Roland and Marjorie Childs.”

The nurse raised her eyes to me as her pen slid through the letters. “Your father is Roland Childs?” I nodded. “Well,” she said, looking back at the clipboard.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, standing up.

The nurse clicked the pen off. “It's down the hall. Go on, then.” I walked away. Out of her sight, I stopped in the hallway beside the men's room door and closed my eyes.

“Sam!” Mama's voice called out. She rushed down the hall toward me, arms open to hug me.

I let her fold me against her. “I'm fine, Mama, I'm fine.” She squished me to her and kissed my head, even though I was much too old to be fussed over. How had she found me so fast? I didn't even care—at least she was there.

“All right, baby. It's all right,” she murmured. Father's heavy footsteps approached. I turned to face him.

“Father,” I said, pulling away from Mama.

Father looked tall in the low-ceilinged hospital corridor. He pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and removed
his gloves. “Where's your brother?” he asked, looking me in the eyes.

I was in trouble.

“They took him in there,” I stammered, and pointed to the room where Stick was.

Father nodded. “Look at me. Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

His gaze was piercing. He was trying to get the truth out of me. After a moment, his eyes softened and he patted me on the shoulder. “All right then. Let me see about your brother.” He strode away and entered Stick's room.

A moment later, the nurse emerged. “I'll get the doctor now,” she said. Mama and I followed Father into the room.

Stick lay in the bed, propped up against pillows. He had a thick white gauze pad taped to the side of his head. “I did what I had to do,” he was saying. Father stood at the far side of the bed, near the window, looking out.

“You let your temper go,” Father said. “We've talked about this.”

“Father, I—”

“No.” Father turned from the window. “When I went to work with Martin, I took an oath of nonviolence. I've upheld it to this day, and I expect you to do the same. No excuses. Is that understood?”

Stick sat up in the bed. “This wasn't some taunts at a
lunch counter! This wasn't ketchup on their heads! Look at my face! I'm not supposed to fight back to that?”

Father didn't always need words to make his point. He could have been a preacher—his eyes were like a sermon in and of themselves. Anyway, Stick knew as well as I did that some of the college kids who'd staged sit-ins to protest segregated lunch counters in the south had been beaten in addition to having condiments poured over their heads. They'd never fought back.

Today, we had.

Father and Stick stared at each other for a long while. Neither of them spoke.