The Rock and the River (6 page)

“All right.” I flopped down on the couch. I hadn't meant to lie, but I couldn't say the truth out loud. I propped my stocking feet up on Mama's cherry coffee table.

Mama adjusted the shirt over her knees. She raised
one eyebrow and cleared her throat. I moved my feet to the carpet.

“In ten minutes, I need you to set the table.”

I nodded and closed my eyes. Bucky's bruised-up face floated in front of me. I sat up. “I'll do it now.”

Mama had already spread her green tablecloth over the dining table. She even had two candles, not lit, for the centerpiece. I picked silverware from the utensil drawer and dumped it on the tablecloth. My hands shook as I got down four plates from the cabinet by the sink. I laid them out around the table. The glasses waited in the drying rack on the counter. I grabbed all four of them at once, but one popped out of my grip. It cracked against the counter edge, tumbled to the floor, and shattered.

I knelt to pick up the pieces. Mama appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Sam, don't touch that. Get out of there, with no shoes on. Look where you're stepping.”

I stayed on my knees, staring at the broken glass. “I couldn't stop it, Mama, I didn't know what to do.”

“Baby, don't fret yourself over one glass. We've got others. Get your shoes and just sweep it up.”

My chest and stomach ached, but still I couldn't tell her. I swept up the glass while Mama pulled our dinner casserole out of the oven and put some rolls in to warm.

“Hello,” Father called from the front door. He thumped around in the entryway, hanging his coat. I took my shoes back over there.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Sam.” Father smiled. “Where's your brother?” Stick's hook on the coatrack was empty. I shrugged. It was past our usual suppertime. Had he heard about Bucky already? News like this traveled fast in the neighborhood. If he'd found out, good. Then I wouldn't have to be the one to tell him. Maybe I wouldn't have to say anything about it, ever.

Mama left the dinner to warm while Father and I washed up, and we all waited for Stick. After a half hour Stick hadn't come home yet. Mama was worried sick over him. She didn't say anything, but she kept twisting her hands and looking out the front window. Finally, Father declared, “Let's eat.”

We had finished dinner and were clearing the table when the doorbell rang. Mama raced from the kitchen and flung open the door. Fred and Leon came inside.

“Can I get either of you anything?” Mama said. “Chicken casserole? Something to drink?”

“No, thank you, Marjorie,” Leon said. He faced Father. “We stopped by to talk for a moment. Sorry to interrupt supper.”

“No intrusion. We're finished,” Father said. “Sam was just about to start his homework.” He gave me a pointed look. I rolled up the tablecloth and got my schoolbag. I spread my math homework out on the table and pretended to work on it as Mama cleared away the last of the supper dishes.

“It's Sharon Willis's boy, Clarence,” Leon said. They took him into custody this afternoon.”

Father motioned them into the living room. “Bucky? I know him. He used to be over here every day.” He frowned. “He's a good kid. They arrested him?”

Leon grimaced and lowered his voice, glancing over at me. “They beat the living daylights out of him, Roland. For a while there, we weren't sure he'd even make it, but he's holding his own.”

Father sat in silence for a moment, maybe saying a prayer. He finally spoke. “He's a tough kid. He'll make it. What's the charge?”

“Two counts of assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.”

My pencil skidded along the page.

Father raised his head. “Assault? Bucky?” His skeptical tone matched my thoughts. “I can't imagine him—”

“It sounds like he just snapped,” Leon continued, shaking his head. “Maybe it has to do with his father. You
never really get over a thing like that. At any rate, the kid attacked two police officers over on Bryant Street earlier this afternoon.”

“That's not what happened,” I blurted. “Bucky didn't start that fight, the police did!”

“Sometimes people act irrationally, Sam,” Father said, turning toward me.

I stood up. “But Father, the police are lying.”

“You don't know that, son. I realize Bucky is a friend of yours, but—”

“I do know! I was there. I saw it happen.”

Father twisted in his seat to face me more fully. Mama set the casserole down with a
thunk
. Everyone stared at me. Then all of them started in at once.

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you saying—?”

“What have I told you about hanging out in the street?”

I traced the edge of the wood tabletop with my pencil eraser. “I was walking my friend Maxie home. She lives on Bryant Street and—”

Father frowned at my mention of that neighborhood. “Sam, I've told you a hundred times—”

“It wasn't after dark,” I protested. “It was still the middle of the afternoon. Anyway, Maxie and I saw Bucky;
he was on his way back to work from making a delivery. He was hurrying, and he looked over his shoulder when someone called his name, but he didn't stop running. He didn't even see them, he bumped into them by accident. They started yelling at him and hitting him with their sticks—”

“They drew nightsticks?” Father's eyebrows dropped lower and lower.

“For heaven's sakes, Roland, let the boy tell his story,” Fred bellowed.

I nodded. “They had sticks. They talked to him, asked him his name and what he was running from. When he didn't answer all the questions, they started hitting him.”

Fred and Leon glanced at each other. Father stared at me.

“There were plenty of people around who can tell you the same.”

Father ran his hand over the top of his head. He turned to Leon. “Are you telling me no one came forward with this? Not one witness?”

“First I've heard of it,” Leon said.

Father sighed. “Why didn't anyone say anything?”

“You know perfectly well why not, Roland,” Leon said quietly.

Father nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. Fred
cleared his throat as if to say something, but sat back when Leon shook his head.

“There's something else we should discuss,” Leon continued in a low voice. I strained to hear him. Leon glanced at me, then Mama. “Though now may not be the best time.”

“Sam, go finish your homework,” Father said. I stood up and gathered my school things as slowly as possible.

“Those kids, the Black Panthers, they're down at the police station now staging a protest,” Leon said. “We didn't know what the purpose was, but hearing Sam”—all three men looked over at me—“it seems they might have cause.”

I ducked around the corner into the hallway, but pressed up against the wall to listen.

“Roland—God, I don't know what to say here,” Leon said.

“What is it, Leon?”

Fred's voice rang out loud and clear. “Steven is down there with them.”

A wave of tension swept over the stillness.

The front door slammed. Fred's car started up in the driveway. I walked back into the living room, where Mama stood alone, looking after the men. We waited in silence.

M
AMA SENT ME TO BED AT THE USUAL
time, but Father and Stick had not returned. I lay quietly, waiting. Then my gaze fell on the stack of magazines beneath Stick's bed. Forbidden territory, but this was an emergency.

I dug into the pile.
Time
,
Newsweek
,
National Geographic
. I rolled my eyes as I went through. No one else I knew read things like this, stuff that belonged on grown-ups' coffee tables. I almost stopped when I hit a volume of our encyclopedia, but right beneath it, there it was:
The Black Panther
. It was a different issue from before, the cover had a different look, but it was what I'd been looking for.

I settled back onto my bed, spreading the paper's narrow pages in front of me. “‘The BPP,'” I read. I skimmed their ten-point platform, the list of things they planned to demand from the government:

I read about Huey Newton, their founder and leader, who was in prison on murder charges, and about the “Free Huey” movement that had taken hold of Oakland and gotten everybody up in arms. Literally. The pictures showed black people in the ghettos with guns. Of course, there were always guns in the ghetto, but not like this. Not facing off with the police.

I tucked myself under the covers, as if going inside could protect me from the ideas in front of me. The articles were harsh but powerful, talking of a revolution with guns. Asking for a real war, saying it was the only way. It was so completely the opposite of everything I'd ever been taught, everything I'd ever done. It scared me, but I couldn't stop reading, couldn't stop imagining—what if it were possible, all these things that they wanted. Weren't these the things we all wanted?

I jumped when the front door slammed again. The picture frames shook on the wall. I sat up in bed.

“We're protesting again tomorrow,” Stick's voice carried through the hallway. “And I'm going to be there.”

“It's not appropriate for you to be involved with these militants. It is reckless behavior that I will not condone.”

I grasped the sheets in my fists and held my breath.

“It doesn't have to be your way. It doesn't always have to be.”

“Under this roof, you will do what you are told.”

“I'll do whatever I want!”

“I am not going to discuss this further. Go to your room. Now.”

Stick thumped into the room. He clicked the light on, and I pinched my eyes shut at the sudden brightness. When I opened them, Stick was tossing clothes around the room as he dressed for bed. His jacket landed on my bed, still cold from being outside. I pushed it off.

“What happened?”

“None of your business. Leave me alone.” He shoved the dresser drawer shut so hard, the handles jangled against the wood.

“How's Bucky?”

Stick glared at me. “How about you leave me alone?”

“Come on,” I said. “How is he? I saw what happened. I was really worried that he might—die or something.”

“He didn't die. He's not going to die.” He took a deep breath and studied me more closely. “What do you mean, you saw what happened?”

“I was there when they—I was walking Maxie home. We were talking to him just before the cops showed up.”

“You talked to Bucky?”

“Yeah. He wanted me to—well, it doesn't matter.” I leaned back against my pillow.

“What?”

“He wanted me to tell you that you should come by the shop tomorrow to talk. Said it was important. I don't know what it was about.”

Stick's bedsprings creaked as he sat down. “It's okay. I know what he wanted. Why are you reading that?”

I didn't reply. It had to be pretty obvious why. But when he held out his hand for it, I passed it to him.

“Why are you?” I said quietly as I let it go. I knew he wouldn't answer me, either. Still, I felt glad he was here now; I didn't want to be alone. “What did Bucky want?”

Stick stared at his knees for a minute, then got up and turned the light off. “It doesn't matter now,” he said as he got into bed. “Go to sleep.”

I lay quietly for a few minutes, until I couldn't stand it any longer. “Stick?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

Stick didn't say anything. I fell asleep waiting for him to answer.

 

In the morning, Stick was gone. At least now I knew where he probably was. The Breakfast. It still burned me that he hadn't told me about it to begin with, that I'd had to find out from Maxie. Didn't he trust me anymore?

“Mama!” I called. “Is my blue shirt clean? The one with the button pockets?”

Mama appeared in my doorway. “I just did the wash,” she said. “Everything's back in the drawers. Put something on and come eat.”

“I wanted to wear it to school,” I groaned. I'd looked through my dresser twice, so I went to Stick's dresser, next to mine. Me and Stick already shared our socks because Mama couldn't tell them apart anymore, now that my feet had grown. I'd noticed some of his clothes mixed in with mine, so maybe she'd accidentally put mine in with his too.

I opened his drawers and dug for my shirt. Nothing. I settled on the floor and leaned against the dresser, trying to decide what else to wear. I'd already checked the closet, but maybe I should check again.

The block tower's hulking presence across the room distracted me. It was looking a bit ragged these days. Blocks poking out of alignment here and there. I'd have to do some quick repairs soon. Especially down at the bottom left. A small section of wall looked skewed, almost like it had come down and been rebuilt. I crawled over to take a closer look.

The crooked corner was in a short side section. It should have stood at a clean right angle to the main tower, but it was angled strangely, as if it had been hastily built. But
there was nothing hasty about a five-year-old block tower. I freed a few bricks, preparing to realign the wall. Inside the gap, I spied a patch of green. Something was back there.

I loosened more bricks until I could make out the neatly folded piece of fabric hiding inside the block tower. One of Stick's shirts. Why was it in there? It made no sense at all.

I drew it out, carefully. It was slow to move, almost heavy. When it was free of the blocks, I picked it up, but it didn't come smoothly. It unfolded awkwardly and something rolled out of it, landing with a thump against the floor. A handgun!

I dropped the shirt as if it were too hot to touch. I shut the bedroom door softly, my hands leaning against the wood until the latch clicked. My knuckles found the lock and depressed it. My fingers lingered on the knob, waiting—for what?

I knelt in front of the tower again. My hands trembled as I reached, gently this time. Deliberately. I lifted the shirt away with two fingers.

I hadn't dreamed it. It was real. The dark metal seemed to gaze back at me, threatening even in its stillness. I could practically hear the twisted shout that was locked inside, waiting to be triggered, released.

I smoothed my finger across the nose and down the L of the handle. Cool, but not cold. Textured, but not rough.
I pulled my hand back and wiped it on my pant leg. What had I thought it would feel like?

With the edge of my fingernail, I eased the gun back inside the tower, uncovered. I restacked the blocks to shield it inside. Each piece I returned to its place made me feel worse. The tower seemed ugly now. Violated. All because of Stick, the one person I thought cared about what we had built as much as I did.

I slipped my arms into the sleeves of Stick's green shirt. It fit me better than I expected, but I paused in the middle of buttoning it. My stomach churned. The shirt I was putting on had just been wrapped around the gun. I almost took it off, but I didn't. I wore it as I collected my schoolbooks and packed my bag. I wore it while Mama kissed my cheek and wished me a nice day, and while Father watched me over the top of the morning paper as I put on my shoes and coat and slipped out the door. I wore it as I went out looking for Stick.

I found him after The Breakfast. He was standing against one of the side walls of the school building smoking a cigarette. Leaning nonchalantly against the bricks, he watched me come over. I weaved through groups of kids running and playing in the yard. I passed Maxie turning a jump rope for Bucky's sister Shenelle and some other little girls. Shenelle grinned and waved at me, waiting her turn
to jump. I waved back and caught Maxie's eye. She gave me a half-smile and lifted one shoulder. Did Shenelle really understand what had happened to Bucky? Maybe it was better that she didn't.

“What do you tell Mama when you race out of the house every morning?” Stick said when I got close enough.

I glanced around. “What are you talking about?”

“She doesn't know you come here, does she? Do either of them?”

“I guess not. Why?”

Stick laughed. “'Cause you act like a bandit every time I see you here, like you're breaking somebody's rule. Why do you hide? You don't have to do everything Father wants, you know.”

My stomach fluttered. “I don't know what he wants.”

“For us to be what he is.”

I kicked at some loose stones along the asphalt. “I don't know what that means.”

“Yes, you do.” He turned to me. “Is that what you want?”

We looked at each other for a while. “Maybe,” I said.

Stick smiled. “Well, you can't be the rock and the river, Sam.” Placing one hand against the bricks, he leaned toward me. “You're here, you're there, which is it?”

“It's just breakfast,” I said. “Isn't it?” The last words
came out with more force than I'd intended. Stick's eyebrows went up. He nodded, chewing on the end of the cigarette.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Stick pulled the cigarette from his mouth and turned it over between his fingertips. He ground it out against the wall behind him. “I don't know.”

“Father's not going to like it.”

“He's not going to like a lot of things.” That was for sure.

A basketball rolled up and bounced against my legs. Stick picked it up and tossed it back to a small boy with two missing front teeth. The boy ran back to his game, hugging the ball to his chest with spindly arms. Stick and I stood quiet, the children's energetic whoops and giggles swirling around us.

“What are you getting into, Stick?” The words came out of my mouth so quiet, Stick leaned a little toward me, like he was trying to hear better. Then he straightened up and turned away from me.

“Forget it.”

“Don't give me your back.” I grabbed his shirt, tried to make him turn around. He didn't.

“I found the gun.”

Stick lowered his head for a moment. Then he turned toward me. His gaze flicked over the shirt I was wearing.

“Well? Say something,” I said.

“You go through my stuff—twice, by the way—and now you've got the nerve to ask me about it?”

I pushed his shoulder. “The block tower is not
your
stuff.”

A flash of something—guilt? regret?—crossed his face. He sighed. “I'm holding it for a friend, okay?”

“You know if Father finds out—”

Stick shot me a look fit for dirt and took off toward the tables. Of course I wouldn't tell on him, but it still bothered me.

“Hey,” I called after him. He didn't turn around. I darted around the kids and caught up with him. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I've got work to do,” Stick said.

 

Father was still all bent out of shape over yesterday's events. Throughout dinner he pumped me for details about Bucky's attack. “And you're certain they approached him first?”

I stared at the tablecloth. “He ran into them, but he didn't even mean to.”

“Roland, that's enough now. Let the child eat.” Mama trying to get Father to back off was like a daffodil standing in the path of a freight train. Sometimes she could hush him
with a look or a tap on the arm, but tonight there was no stopping him.

“Just a few more questions,” Father said.

I pushed the roast beef around on my plate so Mama wouldn't feel bad, but thinking about Bucky so hard made me lose my appetite.

“Leave him alone,” Stick said. “Don't make him relive it.” I glanced up at him, but he was looking at his plate. Suddenly, he was on my side?

“Steven, be quiet,” Father said. Then he sighed. “Go to your room now, both of you.” I hadn't really done anything wrong, but as long as I had to be in trouble, it felt good to be in it with Stick.

When we got to our room, Stick didn't glower at his desk and ignore me like he usually did when he was fighting with Father.