The Rock and the River (14 page)

S
TICK TURNED TOWARD FATHER, BUT I
stared at the ground. I couldn't look at either of them. Someone grabbed me around the shoulders.

“Come on, kid.” It was Leroy. He pushed me through the demonstrators, cops, and bystanders. Stick was right behind us.

We ran the few blocks to where Leroy's car was parked. I turned around and looked back at the crowd, but I couldn't see Father. He hadn't come after us—he'd let us go. Leroy nudged me toward the car. “Move it, kid! We can't hang around now.”

Leroy got behind the wheel and hit the ignition. Stick shoved me into the backseat and eased in after me. His face was pale. He leaned forward and dropped the gun onto the front passenger seat, then turned to me.

“What were you thinking?” Stick demanded. He was
trembling, and he looked as though he might either explode or collapse.

Leroy put the gun inside the glove compartment. The latch closed, hiding it from view, but I felt as if I could still see it.

I didn't bother to answer Stick. What was I thinking? I couldn't begin to say. If I believed anything Father had ever taught me, I should've felt bad for what I had just done. Why didn't I? When Stick was in trouble, it didn't feel wrong.

“Are you all right?” I asked Stick. He leaned away from me with a sigh.

Leroy steered us away from the crowds, back toward the projects. “What's your name?” Leroy asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Sam.”

“What were you doing with a gun?” Stick asked. “This was supposed to be a peaceful protest.”

“You should talk.”

Stick looked away.

“We can't win like that at this point, and you know it,” Leroy said, frowning into the mirror. “Or, you should.”

I stared at the rippling water as we drove along the lakefront. The wide calmness didn't match my mood, or soothe me. “None of this means anything anymore. You can
scream till you're blue in the face, and still be standing in the same place,” I said.

“They'll just learn to tune you out,” Leroy finished for me.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

I snuck a glance at Stick, but his attention was on the city, the walls and corners whizzing by his window. We were in the wrong seats. When we drove along the lake, Stick liked to sit where he could see the water, and me where I could see the buildings. But things like that didn't matter anymore.

Leroy parked near the building where they held the classes. The three of us got out and went inside to the meeting room. The space looked much larger with all the chairs folded against the walls. Two tables stood alone in the center of the room. Stick unfolded a chair and set it by a table. I sat down. Stick and Leroy pulled chairs up to the other table. I stretched my hands across the wood tabletop and rested my head on one arm. I didn't have the strength to ask what would happen now. Stick would know. Stick would take care of everything.

I sat up when Raheem and Lester thumped through the door. They both glanced at me warily as they walked in. I put my head back down and sat quietly while the others talked. I tried to listen, but all I could think of was Father. Father,
and how I had shattered the sense of understanding we had built. But behind that thought, there was Stick. Stick, and how I couldn't stand by and let him be hurt. Which was worse? Hurting Stick by doing nothing, or hurting Father by doing what I did? My head ached with my thoughts, all the memories of moments I still didn't understand.

Leroy cleared his throat. “Whites are just beginning to recognize that equality really means they won't be on top anymore. There's a deep ravine between our races,” he said. I got the feeling Leroy always did a lot of the talking and idea-making.

“Some of the whites who are supposedly on our side only stay there as long as our freedom doesn't interfere with their superiority. The hypocrisy is so deep, we can't even see it most of the time. And they never will see it.” Leroy looked over at me. The others followed suit.

“So, kid, you ever been to the Wednesday political education class?” Lester asked. I almost laughed. How could he ask me that right now? It was such a normal question. But nothing could go back to normal after today.

“Yeah, one time,” I said, sitting up.

Lester and Leroy exchanged a glance. “Why don't you come with us back to the office,” Leroy said. “You can help us with—”

“No,” Stick said out of nowhere.

“You saw what the kid did out there. That's what we need.”

My heart surged with pride, drawing me back into the moment I'd pulled the gun. The thrill, the terror coursing through me. I'd done nothing with the gun but hold it in my hand, but for that one moment, I'd been heard.

Stick got up from the table. “Not Sam, Leroy.”

“What's it to you?”

“He's my brother.” I sat up straighter.

“I can see that. He looks just like you.”

“He's too young,” Stick said. What did Leroy want me to do? I wanted to know. I needed to know. I needed that feeling back, even for a moment—the sense that something I did made a difference.

“Well, you raised him right,” Leroy said.

“I'm taking him home. Come on, Sam. Let's go.”

“I want to stay,” I said.

“You can't,” Stick said.

Leroy rested his fist on Stick's shoulder. “You know it's not up to you. It's up to him.”

“Let's go, Sam.” Stick grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.

I yanked my arm loose. But Stick was still close, so close. I shoved him away. He staggered back, his thighs catching the rim of the table. His eyes flashed with a sheen of anger
that frightened me more than a little. He steadied himself, clenching his fists, jaw tight as a cornerstone. I thought we were going to fight again. Right there, in front of everyone. But Stick checked himself, visibly tucked in his temper in favor of something else.

“We're going home,” he said. “Right. Now.”

I had no reins for my own frustration. My voice rose. “I'm not leaving.”

Leroy's calm voice floated between us. “Listen, we've gotta roll. Why don't you two finish this on your way home? I'll catch both of you later.”

Stick held up his hand and Leroy tossed him his car keys on his way out. The door closed with a thud, leaving us alone amid the sound reverberating off the concrete walls. Stick stalked toward me. “What are you trying to prove?”

“What are
you
trying to prove?” I shot back. “I can be brave too.”

“You're not ready for this, Sam, if you think that's what it's about.”

“Yes, I am. I'm going with them.” I hurried to the door. But when I emerged onto the street, Leroy and the others were nowhere to be seen.

Stick came up behind me. “You're not ready for this life, so don't chase after it. You don't want it,” he said. His tone was not mean, or even harsh, but I hated that he thought
that about me. Even more, I hated that he was right. I didn't want to leave home. I didn't want to hold a gun. I had little voice left for protest. Mostly, I wanted to be left alone.

Stick went on. “This isn't something you ask for. It happens to you. I can't explain it. Someday something will happen and you'll know. Or it won't, and you'll live your life doing other things. It'll all be good, Sam.”

I fought the powerful urge to storm off, but to where? Home to Father's lectures and disappointment? Following Leroy and the others toward…I didn't know what? I couldn't see how to move in either direction, but it hurt like hell standing still.

“Let's drive,” Stick said, dangling Leroy's keys. We got in the car. I thought Stick would drive off right away, but instead he sat still for a while. He rubbed his forehead. “I never meant for you to get involved like this.”

I crossed my arms. “Because you don't think I can handle it. Well, I can.”

“Look, I never said you weren't brave,” Stick said, softening his tone. “What you did today, that was brave. Brave and stupid.” He swatted me on the back of the head. His hand bounced off the back of my hair. He smiled gently, a sad look in his eyes. “You don't always have to be like me.”

I turned away, resting my forehead on the window
glass. “How can it be all right for you and not for me?” Down the sidewalk, two little boys tore after a rolling ball. Friends. Brothers, maybe.

Stick, too, watched the boys playing. “I don't want you to get hurt,” he said softly. “I can't have that.”

“What about you?”

“Keep coming to the meetings,” he said. “Do the breakfast. And make up with your girl, because she's driving the rest of us crazy.” He flashed a small grin, then became serious again. “Just leave the other stuff to me. I'm okay with whatever happens.”

I sank down in my seat. I didn't like him saying that.

Stick slid the keys into the ignition.

“Wait,” I said.

Stick paused, then shook his head. “I'm taking you home.”

“No.” I scrambled out of the car.

“Sam.” Stick leaped out too.

I shut the door and looked across the roof at him. “I want to stay with you.”

Stick laughed. “No, you don't. You're going back.”

“I can't go home after what I did.”

Stick studied the hood of the car. He ran his fingers along the metal fringe across the top of the door. “You can always go home,” he said. “It's just not always easy.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

Stick caught my eye. “You don't have to say anything. You won't be able to get a word in edgewise, anyway. Look, you've always been able to handle Father better than me. You're still the good son, Sam.”

What was he talking about? There was nothing I could do better than Stick. Even if I could believe what he said, my actions today had surely ruined any favor Father may have felt for me. But what choice did I have? Run away, like Stick? Where did he sleep? What did he eat? Looking at him here, I still couldn't understand how he managed it. I wanted to go home.

We got back in the car. “Stick?”

“Hmm.”

“I'm not sorry.”

“I know,” he said. “It's okay.” Stick drove me home. He didn't say anything more, and I was too tired to try to talk.

“Come in with me,” I said as he pulled into the driveway.

Stick braked the car and turned to me. He didn't reply, just brushed his thumb across his mouth in a move that reminded me of Father.

“I'll see you,” I said. We clasped hands.

I waited until he drove away, then went inside. The
house was dark, but Mama was inside, watching television. An uneasy feeling churned up in my stomach. I glanced at the clock. It was barely afternoon. School should still be in session.

“I'm back,” I said. “Mama?”

She didn't answer me. I went up beside her. Father was on television, getting interviewed by some reporters. “I maintain, violence is not the answer to these problems of race and discrimination. We must foster dialogue between the black and white extremes.”

“Mama?” I waited for her to ask about the demonstration, but she didn't seem to notice me. She was sitting very still on the edge of the sofa, her handbag in her lap. I sat down beside her, and she jumped.

“Sam, baby.” She ran her hand along the side of my face. “You're all right.”

I lifted her fingers from my cheek and held them. “Mama, what is it?”

Father's voice shook with conviction that was discernable even through the television's fuzzy speakers. “We must come together at one table—the table of brotherhood, to use Dr. King's words—we must come together and hear each other out so that true justice and equality may—”

A scream erupted from the crowd on television.
The camera tilted, then righted itself. The familiar logo of a union jacket filled the frame. The man came out of nowhere, walked up to Father in broad daylight, big as life, and on television. And Father fell to the ground.

W
HAT HAPPENED?” I SAID, KNEELING
in front of the screen.

“They're replaying it,” Mama said.

“Why do they do that?”

I stared at the television. I couldn't see Father, but people in the crowd were screaming. They pressed closer, jostling the camera. Then the picture broke away and returned to a sound stage, where a reporter began droning. I listened, disbelieving. The man had had a knife, had stabbed Father, he said. His condition was unknown. The assailant had simply walked away in the confusion of the crowd. Hundreds of people around, dozens of police, and they let him walk away.

The law would not protect Father. They would always find a reason to strike down a black man, especially one with a sharp mind and a dangerous tongue. A man people listened to.

I touched the screen with my fingertips. Mama began to weep.

I went back to sit beside her. “Mama, we have to go to the hospital,” I said. “Let's go.”

“Your father has the car,” she said, blotting her cheeks. “I thought you were with him. When I didn't see you there”—she motioned at the screen—“I thought…” She dissolved into tears again.

I put my hands on her shoulders. “I'm here, Mama. I'm fine. We have to go.”

“Yes. We'll take the bus,” she said. But she remained frozen in place, staring at the television. I brushed my hand over her hair. Mama was in no shape for public transportation, and I felt rather shaky myself.

“No, I'll find someone to drive us,” I said.

I ran next door, but it didn't look like anyone was home. I banged on the door, anyway. No answer. Two doors down, no answer. Why should there be? It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week. I scanned the driveways along the street, then dashed across the road to a house with a car parked out front.

I pounded on the door, but no one came. A curtain fluttered, or maybe it was my imagination, but no one answered. I thought about going around back, but the sound of cars behind me made me stop.

Two media vans sped down the street, pulled up in front of our house. They took cameras from the back and went up onto our porch. I abandoned my search and ran home. I dodged the reporters, ducked beneath their cameras, ignoring the questions they fired at me. I slammed the door in their faces.

“Mama?”

She stood just inside the door, waiting with her purse in hand. “Who's here?” she said, looking over my shoulder. “Reporters?”

“No one's home. We have to ride the bus after all.”

Mama went to the front window and looked out. A third press group had arrived. “No,” she said. “They'll follow us.” The bus stop was three blocks away, and who knew how long we'd have to wait there.

“So? We have to go.”

“No.” She glanced over her shoulder, a fierce protective light in her eyes. “I'm not taking you out there.”

“But, Father—”

“Your father will be fine.”

I walked toward her. “He will? Did someone call? From the hospital?”

“I know my husband,” she said lifting her chin. “I know what he would want me to do.”

 

The doorbell startled me. It had buzzed nonstop for the last hour, but each ring made me jump. I wouldn't answer. What did they want with us? Everyone knew Father's face, of course, knew what had happened. If I opened the door, we would be on the evening news. I didn't want Mama's tears on television. Every time the phone rang, someone wanted a statement. I took it off the hook.

There had been no word of Father since the television said they'd taken him away in the ambulance. I tried to call the hospital, but they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. We had no car, no way to get there. Fred and Leon and Father's other friends had been out at the demonstration. I had no way to reach anyone, not even Stick.

Mama sat beside me on the sofa, clinging to my hand. She leaned her head on my shoulder. The television hummed, a jingly ad for laundry soap.

“I'm going to turn it off,” I said, trying to pull away.

“We have to hear,” she murmured. I got chills. She'd said those words before.

A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. The voices from outside grew louder. I turned around, my heart pounding.

Stick stepped into the hall. He gave me a long stare, and something tugged inside me.

“Let's go,” he said.

Mama blinked at the sound of his voice, but she didn't raise her head.

“Stick's home, Mama,” I said, shaking her off my shoulder. “He's come to get us.”

We stepped outside, and my eyes opened wide. There was a whole line of brothers out there. Brothers in black leather jackets. Brothers with guns. They stood facing away from one another in two long rows stretching from the house to the street, where Leroy's car was waiting. I held Mama's hand as we walked.

The reporters were outside the rows of Panthers, photographing us and shouting questions, but they didn't try to break through. I ignored them, helping Mama into the backseat.

Father's friend Leon Betterly drove up and stopped behind Leroy's car. He looked at the Panthers, the reporters, then me. I climbed into Leroy's car beside Mama and closed the door.

 

The hospital corridor stretched, long and white, in front of me. It felt too familiar. Nothing but white, all around. There was no place for me to stand.

The day Stick got his head cut, I'd stood in this same room, with its uncomfortable rows of chairs and the bitter smell of blood and medicine mixing in the air. My head
swam with the
swish-swish
of nurses' skirts as they hurried from room to room, and the
squeak-squeak
of gurney wheels echoing along the tile halls. It was the kind of waiting room that sucked away all hope, sent it swirling down a drain far out of reach. I felt as though I wasn't really there. I was someplace else.

Father's hand on my shoulder brought me back.

“What?” I said, blinking toward him. His face stood out, dark, against the waiting room walls.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

It wasn't Father, it was Stick. Everyone said they looked alike. I had never seen it for myself.

Stick led me to a seat beside Mama. His hand rested against my back as we walked, and I wondered where it came from, his ability to be strong and gentle at the same time. He sat down in the row of white chairs across from me. “They said he's stable. He'll be out of surgery soon.”

“Praise the Lord,” Leon said, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

Mama took my hands, and looked Stick straight in the eye. “It's those Panther kids that caused this,” she said. “They've got everybody on edge.”

Stick stood up and moved close to Mama. He touched the side of her face with the tips of his fingers, then, without a word, he walked away.

I couldn't let him leave that way. I placed Mama's hands back in her lap and followed Stick. He was standing by the window, apart from us. His hands were in his pockets, his back to the room.

I stood beside him. The wide blue of Lake Michigan stretched out in front of us. The color of the water blended with the sky at the horizon as if there was no opposite shore.

“He was just giving a speech,” I said, closing my fist around a wad of curtain. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass. “It's so wrong.”

“People like that guy don't know right from wrong,” Stick said. “Just black from white.”

“They think they're better for being white, but they're worse,” I said. “I hate them all.”

“No,” Stick said. “Just the ones who do this.”

“It's so messed up,” I said. My eyes started to water, not from being sad, but from being mad. My head hurt, as if pieces of my brain had fallen out of place. I couldn't put them back. I couldn't put any of it back. Nothing I could do would fix what I'd made happen. “I don't know what to do,” I whispered.

Stick nodded. He wasn't like Father. He wouldn't try to explain how I should feel or tell me what to think. Anyway, Stick knew all about being mad.

Leroy and Raheem stood near us. I hadn't noticed them come inside.

“We have to take off if we're going to make it before they wrap up for the day.” Leroy said.

Stick went over and spoke quietly to Leroy. I strained to catch what they were saying.

“He needs to understand,” Leroy said, looking at me.

“I'll meet you outside in a minute,” Stick told him.

“I'm coming too,” I said.

“No,” Mama said, coming up behind me. “This family is broken bad enough.” She glared at Raheem and Leroy, then turned her eyes on Stick.

“He's not going anywhere, Mama,” Stick said. “Neither am I. I don't have to go anywhere.”

Mama's voice rose. “You did this. And now you think you can walk back in and pick up the pieces?”

“Don't yell at him,” I said.

Mama ignored me, focusing on Stick as she pointed down the hall with a shaking hand. “Your father got hurt without you by his side. He'll pick himself back up without you there, if that's what has to happen. But you are not going to take Sam away too.”

“Stop it, Mama! It's not his fault. It's my fault.” The words had been boiling inside me, filling me up. Now they were out, and I felt myself crumpling inward. “It's my fault.”
My hands shook. I twisted up the curtain in my fingers and held on.

“Sam.” Stick's hand on my arm. “Come sit down.”

I couldn't breathe. Mama pushed Stick aside. She touched my face, my chest.

“Look what this is doing to your brother.”

She didn't know. She didn't understand. “I did it! Tell her it was me,” I screamed.

Stick watched me with an expression I'd never seen and didn't understand. I looked to Leroy. “Tell her!”

Leroy shrugged. “I don't see it that way.”

“Enough,” Mama said. “All of you, go.”

Stick stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Mama.”

“Go,” she shouted. “Get on. Leave Sam alone!” She grabbed me around the neck and yanked my head down onto her chest, clutched me to her. Her chest heaved against my cheek, and the sound of her weeping cut into me. Her tears, heavy with fear, fell against my neck.

“Mama, let go,” I said. She slowly withdrew her arms. I raised my head and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mama.”

Seeing her cry made my stomach ache. I didn't want to walk away.

I turned to follow Stick and the others. Leon Betterly stepped in front of me, said something to me, but I didn't hear him.

I rushed into the parking lot and stopped short. There was a whole crowd there, holding signs and candles and singing. It was as if half of Bucky's demonstration had shifted over a couple of blocks. People in the crowd tried to touch me as I passed, calling out good wishes. A tearful woman whispered, “We're praying for him,” as her fingernails scratched against my sleeve.

Stick, Leroy and Raheem headed toward Leroy's car. I caught up with them at the edge of the parking lot. “You're wrong,” I said, as I came up beside Leroy.

“Not often,” he said, giving me half a smile.

“This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't—”

“Sam,” he interrupted. He stopped walking and leaned toward me as if to hug me, but simply put his hand near the base of my neck and spoke into my ear. “You're only responsible for your own actions. You can't control how someone else reacts to what you do. You made a choice. Stand by it.” He moved toward Stick and Raheem, who were waiting beside his car.

“I want to come with you,” I said.

“Go back inside, Sam.” Raheem put his hand on my shoulder. “You be with your mama right now. She needs you.”

“Stick?” I said. His back was to me. “Stick, don't leave me here.”

He didn't turn or even act like he'd heard me. He got into the car without a second glance. It was the worst thing he could have done to hurt me.

“Tomorrow,” Raheem said. “He'll come get you in the morning.”

They got in the car and drove off, leaving me standing alone. I didn't want to be there, didn't want to be anywhere except where they were going, but I couldn't follow. Even if I knew where to go, the part of me that was burned by Stick's betrayal wouldn't let me chase after him.

The crowd hummed a low, sad spiritual. I knew the words, but I didn't sing along. I waded through the soft-tugging rhythms of hope and desperation, and as I moved among the people, I couldn't help wondering, if Father wasn't there anymore, who would lead them? I erased the thought. Father would always be there. I pushed past everyone and returned to the waiting room.