The Rock and the River (7 page)

“Look, I need you to cover me for a little while,” Stick said.

“Why should I?” I practically spat the words.

Stick raised his eyebrows at me. “I'm going out to the protest.”

“No.”

Stick shifted his weight from one foot to the other and crossed his arms. “Sam.”

“Are you taking it with you?” We locked eyes. I didn't
back down against Stick's stormy gaze like I usually did. Right then, I didn't care. I didn't want him to leave me alone with it.

His eyes narrowed as he realized I wasn't going to let him pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. He sat down on his bed and pulled on his shoes. “No. I can't.”

“Well, you can't leave it here.”

“Sam, stop it. It's none of your business.”

“It's my room too. What are you going to do if Mama finds it?”

Stick stood up. “Don't even joke about that.”

“Who's joking? I found it, didn't I?”

“Keep your voice down.” Stick sighed. “Look, I don't have anywhere else to put it right now. Just forget about it.”

Right. Sure. I flopped down onto my bed, facing away from him. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't tell on him. I didn't even want to, but how was I supposed to act normal with that thing in my room? Why couldn't I be casual about it, the way Stick was?

“So, you'll cover for me, then?” He was already pulling on his jacket. He pushed the curtains aside.

I rolled over. “How am I supposed to do that? You know I can't lie.”

“Say good night without opening the door, that kind of thing. I'll be back in a bit.”

“Is Bucky in the Panthers too? Is that why they're protesting?”

Stick frowned and stood up straighter. “No, it's not why. Nobody cares if Bucky's a Panther or not. We care that what happened to him was wrong.”

“So he's not a Panther?”

Stick smiled a little. “You know Bucky. He wouldn't carry a gun if you paid him, much less use it.”

I smiled back. “Yeah.” I wanted to add, You either, I thought.

Stick raised the window. “Don't lock it. I'll knock if I can't get it up from outside.”

I opened my mouth to say I won't, but I didn't. Stick paused, one leg already outside. It would show him, all right, if I locked the window behind him. But we both knew I wouldn't.

“See you,” I said instead as he slipped out the window. I caught a glimpse of his face as he disappeared. Something in his expression said he was leaving more than me behind.

Not five minutes later, Father knocked at the door. “Good night, Sam. Good night, Steve,” he called.

“Good night,” I called back.

Father's breath in the hallway. “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Open the door, please.”

It was all over now. “Um, we're in bed. We're going to sleep.”

Father turned the doorknob. It had been pointless to lock it. He would just have made me open it, anyway. “Where's your brother?”

Wherever he was, he was about to owe me big. “I'm not sure.”

Father pointed at Stick's bed. “The minute he comes back, I want to know, understood?”

If he thought I was going to rat on Stick…there was no way.

“Sam?”

I couldn't speak.

Father sighed. “Never mind.” He left the room.

Several minutes later, through the wall, came muffled sounds of him talking with Mama. The walls weren't thin enough to hear normal conversations, only raised voices, so they had to be arguing.

“Go back and talk to him,” Mama said.

Father said something in response. A moment later he came in, carrying one of the big pillows off his and Mama's bed. He had removed his belt and shoes and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his white undershirt. He placed the pillow against the side of Stick's bed, then flicked off the light and sat down on the floor.

I crossed my legs on the bed and leaned against the wall. A thin stream of light from the window lit a long rectangle over Father's face and chest. I liked him being there with me, even though it meant I had failed Stick.

“Are you going to sit there until he comes back?”

“Your brother is very angry with me right now,” Father said, tugging at his shirt buttons.

“He's mad about other things too,” I said.

Father raised his eyes to me. “Yes, I know.”

“Bucky's one of his best friends.”

“I hate what happened to Bucky, Sam. It makes me angry too, but, son, anger makes people foolish. You have to find a way to control it, because people will take advantage of any opening you give them.”

Could I tell him I was mad too? Mostly at myself. I'd been right there, but I had done nothing to help Bucky. I hadn't even tried. Stick would've known what to do. He wouldn't have just stood there. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. “Everything's a mess.”

“Things are changing, Sam. It takes time.”

“How much longer?”

Father smiled. “If you could bottle and sell that answer, you'd be a millionaire in no time.” He crossed his arms and stared out the window. “Every day I wake up thinking if I knew what tomorrow would look like, it would make today
a whole lot easier. Change is never easy. When this whole thing started, we didn't think it would take as long as it has.”

“How can you be sure it will happen?”

Father shook his head. “Faith and perseverance got us this far. They'll take us the rest of the way.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, then Father rested his head back against Stick's mattress. “Go to sleep, Sam.”

I slid under the covers and lay down facing him.

“Good night.” Through my eyelashes I watched him watching me fall asleep. I tried to imagine the world as it should be, the way Father could surely see it in his mind.

I
DIDN'T HEAR STICK COME IN THAT NIGHT, OR
hear what Father had to say about him sneaking out. I woke in the morning to rustling sounds in the room. It was barely light outside, too dim even to read the clock on my desk without crawling to the end of the bed to look. I lay still. Stick riffled through papers at his desk, then tiptoed to the dresser and eased open a drawer. He changed his clothes, putting on an outfit I'd never seen and couldn't totally make out in the dark. It looked like some kind of one-piece suit or overalls.

“You going to The Breakfast?” I asked.

Stick jumped. “You're up.”

“Yeah, I thought there was an elephant in the room.”

Stick didn't smile. “Sorry. Go to sleep.”

“I have to go to school.”

“Not for a few hours, Sam. Sleep.” He opened the
window. He came and went more that way than through the door lately.

“Okay. See you at The Breakfast.”

Stick hesitated, one leg out the window. “Not today.”

I sat up. “What? Where are you going?”

“Sleep.” He touched my shoulder, then slid outside.

For weeks, the same thing. Stick left early, trying not to wake me. I always woke up. I pretended to sleep, lying very still but keeping my eyes open. Where was Stick going every day? He never came to The Breakfast anymore and he refused to talk to me or answer my questions, even though I hadn't done anything to him. Bucky was still in jail. His trial would start soon. Father was organizing a demonstration. All the while, Stick grew quieter and somehow more still. A shadow crossed his face whenever anyone mentioned Bucky, and every day it seemed to stay longer, pressing his features into a perpetual frown.

Maxie and I walked and talked every day after school, and I started liking her more and more. Spring weather set in, and on one of the first warm afternoons, Maxie and I stayed late at school watching some kids playing ball in the schoolyard.

“Finally, it's spring!” Maxie cheered, spinning across the pavement. She danced, and I leaned against the fence. She'd retired the mittens until next winter, and her slender,
graceful hands waved above her head. I laughed out loud at her crazy twirling. She was pretty much the only thing that made me smile these days. We stayed in the yard until Mr. Baker, the principal, emerged from the school.

“All you kids, get home, now!” he called out across the yard as he locked the building. He shooed us out of the playground while we complained that it wasn't even late yet.

I walked Maxie home, and when I left her, it was nearly dark. People seemed to be milling around more than usual, probably because of the good weather. I looked around. The crowds were growing. People streamed out of the buildings into the streets. “What's happening?” I asked someone rushing past.

“King is dead,” the man shouted, then ran on.

“What?” I yelled after him. I spun around. “What's going on?”

“He's dead,” a woman's voice came from my left. She was slight, dark-skinned, and holding the hand of a little boy.

“Who's dead?”

“Dr. King. They shot him. Someone shot Dr. King.” Her voice was clear; I caught every word this time, but it couldn't be true.

“No,” I said.

The woman clapped a hand over her mouth. Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Lord,” she said through her fingers. “Lord in heaven.” She scooped up the boy and hurried off through the crowd. As she left, individual shouts and people's crying separated from the general roar of the crowd.

From a passing car radio, the news blared out and echoed between the sidewalks. “Breaking news. Prominent civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., died tonight in Memphis after being shot while standing on the balcony of his hotel. Dr. King was taken…” The voice faded and blurred into nothing.

I stood senseless for a moment, sure I'd heard something wrong. Dr. King couldn't die. No one would let that happen. Just last night we'd listened to part of his latest speech on the radio. He'd talked about the future, said he'd seen the promised land and we were on our way. He'd been fine then, just last night. I couldn't believe it, and yet somehow, I knew it was true.

My mind cluttered with memories. Out of the gray dusk, they appeared. Dr. King's face, his voice, his presence. Dr. King, fist pounding the pulpit when he preached at our church once last year. Dr. King pacing in the hotel corridor, thinking about a big upcoming speech. Dr. King standing on the Lincoln Memorial steps on that same hot August day. Dr. King walking not six blocks from here, leading a
rally for affordable housing. Dr. King at the dinner table, eating chicken pot pie from our good china plates.

I bent in the middle, holding my stomach. I thought I might be sick. I searched the faces around me. There was an edginess to the crowd, as if we were all waiting for something to happen. It hung in the air—the promise of something horrible, as if the news wasn't horrible enough.

When the restless energy in the street ignited, everything busted out into the open. Sadness and anger curled through the street, a wave of hurt. It tasted bitter, it looked ugly.

Glass was breaking, raining down like tears against the asphalt. Things fell all around me, inside me, until it seemed there was nothing left. A shattered store window lay glistening at my feet. I stared at the wreckage. Feet and bodies rushed past, bumped against me. A scratching sound beside me. A boy striking a match. The tiny flame glowed as he lit the mouth of a Molotov cocktail. The flame seared the tip of the oiled cloth and sizzled toward the bottleneck. He hurled it, and the fire spread across the storefront in front of us. The boy spat into the pile of glass at our feet. He turned to me, a glistening light in his eyes. His gaze burned as hot as the fires around us, fueled by anger, helplessness, desperation. I saw my reflection in his eyes. If I stood still any longer I might catch fire too.

The shouts and pandemonium filled my head. Fire,
crowds, broken things everywhere. Logic urged me to run, get away, but something kept me there. Another fire burned somewhere close by. The heat rose up and held me. It pressed close to me, pushed its way inside. I surrendered to the wave, to the fire. I picked up a brick from the sidewalk and flung it through the store window, then I rushed at the building. The heat dug deep in my chest; it overpowered everything else, the confusion, the pain, the questions. I let the fire take over. I kicked the door until it caved in. I didn't know why. Because I was there, because it felt less bad. Less bad than doing nothing.

“Sam!”

I turned. Maxie stood a few feet away. I dropped the pipe I held. It clattered to the street and rolled away. I rushed toward her, but tripped and fell. Broken glass stabbed my fingers, tore the knees of my pants. I stood up and reached for Maxie.

We raced through the streets, hand in hand. Everything was on fire. The heat was all around me, in me. I wanted to curl up in the street and burn. I stumbled, but Maxie held me tight. Her face was streaked with tears and sweat.

She pulled me into the alley behind George's Liquor Cabinet. We leaned against the rough bricks and breathed hard, staring at each other. Would tomorrow come? If it did, what would it look like? Maxie and I stood still and
held each other. There was nothing else to do. She cried into my shoulder. I had to protect her, keep her safe from all the mess around us.

“Come on,” I said. “We're going home.” I tucked her under my arm and guided her to the street. She wrapped her arms around my chest. A surge of feeling rushed through the empty space inside me. I kissed her moist cheek. She hugged me tighter.

Police sirens and flashing lights surrounded us. The air smelled of sweat and ashes. It was hard to walk fast and stand so close, so I took her hand instead. We hurried on, fingers locked together, toward my house. We tripped in the door, breathing hard. Mama looked up from the television. She sat on the edge of the chair by the window, fingers curled deep into the armrests. Father shouted into the telephone from the kitchen.

“Oh, baby,” Mama said. “Baby.” She stretched out trembling hands to me. I went over and she pulled me down, pressing my face into her neck. I tugged away, but Mama took hold of my arms. My palms were scratched from the glass, so she held the backs of my hands and surveyed the damage. Then she looked past me to Maxie, reached for Maxie's hand and squeezed it.

“There was nowhere else to go,” Maxie said, looking between Mama and me.

Mama nodded. “Stay with us.” She turned back to gaze at the television. The reporter's flat voice sent chills through me.

“Let's turn it off,” I said to Maxie. She shook her head.

“We have to hear,” Mama said. “We have to hear.”

“What's left to hear, Mama? He's dead,” I whispered. Her grip on me went slack, and I freed myself from her fingers.

“Hush, child.” Mama stared at me without blinking. She knew, but she didn't want to hear me say it. Maxie and I moved to the sofa, and I held her hand again. She leaned against me. We sat without speaking, watching the newscaster report the facts over and over, as if at some point the story would change.

From time to time I glanced at Maxie. Each time, it seemed, she wasn't paying attention to the television news. She was looking around the room, at the furniture and the wallpaper, at Father's large, cluttered desk, at the framed pictures on the walls. The hand that wasn't caught in mine stroked the soft fabric of the sofa cushions intently.

Eventually, Mama moved to the edge of her chair, her fingers wrapped firmly around the armrests. “Well, that's enough of that,” she declared with false brightness. She snapped off the television set and turned to Maxie. “What's
your phone number, honey? I'll call your mother and let her know you're safe.”

Maxie lifted her head from my shoulder, pulling away from me. “No, that's okay.” She looked alarmed. “I'll just go home now.”

“Nonsense,” Mama said. “You're not going anywhere tonight. You'll stay with us.”

Maxie bent over and fumbled with her shoes. I nudged her arm, but she wouldn't look at me.

“Give her the number,” I said. “You can't go back out there.”

Maxie looked at her knees. “We don't have a phone,” she mumbled. My face flushed. I hadn't known. I hadn't even thought of it. Maxie finally raised her head, but this time I looked away, embarrassed.

“That's all right, Maxie.” Father emerged from the kitchen doorway. “I have to go out, anyway. I'll stop by and tell your mother myself.”

“Roland, no.”

Father strode across the room and kissed Mama's cheek. “I have to take care of a few things.” Despite the attempt at his typical, casual confidence, Father seemed flustered. He let Mama sneak her arms around him and lay her head on his chest instead of breaking away to get on with the business at hand. He held her longer than he might on a normal day.

Maxie related her address, and Father nodded, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I wouldn't have wanted to guess.

He thumped out the door and the three of us sat in silence. I remembered what the journey here with Maxie had been like. Things tend to get worse, not better, and knowing how unbalanced I'd felt being in the midst of the fray, I couldn't imagine the state of the streets right now.

We sat there for a long time, sometimes talking quietly, but mostly resting in silence. Father returned and we were still sitting there. His face was haggard, I noticed with alarm. He traipsed in heavily, as if his boundless stamina for pursuing justice had been exhausted. The thought of that shook me.

“What are you all still doing up?” he murmured.

None of us had a good answer for that. Mama stretched. “I don't know, and it's past time we went to sleep. I'll just make up the sofa now for Maxie.”

“No,” Father said. “Take her to the bedroom. I have some more calls to make. I'll sleep on the sofa.”

Mama stood up and approached him. “You need to rest.”

This time he evaded her embrace. “I will,” he said. Her eyes followed his back as he went to his desk and shuffled papers around.

I walked Maxie and Mama to Mama's room. They crawled into the bed beside each other, still wearing all their clothes. Mama turned on her side, facing the wall. Maxie lay down tentatively, looking like she felt out of place. I kissed Mama on the cheek, then rounded the bed and kissed Maxie on the mouth. It just happened. I opened my eyes wide and tried to look like it had been an accident, or a mistake, in case she wanted it to be. But she didn't seem to mind it. She even smiled, as much as anyone could smile that night.

As I headed to bed, I peeked into the living room. Father stood at the window, pulling back the curtains every few moments to look out. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything, but my stomach churned and my eyes kept tearing up. The sounds of Mama weeping came through the wall. Was Maxie crying too? Could she ever fall asleep in a strange house? The floorboards creaked as Father paced.

Stick never came home.

 

“Sam.” I woke to Stick's hand on my shoulder. “Sam!”

“What?” I rubbed my eyes. Why was he waking me up? I cracked one eyelid. A hint of predawn cast the room in shades of light blue. Stick knelt beside my bed, a strange look on his face.

I sprang up and grabbed Stick's shoulder. “Was it a dream?”

Stick shook his head, eyes heavy. His face seemed to have new angles, a tightness I didn't recognize. My fingers dug into the buttery, cool fabric of his jacket. Leather. With a crisp collar and two rows of buttons down the front.

“Where were you?”

“Shh! Don't wake the whole house.”

“I didn't think I would ever fall asleep,” I said. “I was waiting for you. Where have you been?”