The Rock and the River (10 page)

He threw his fist in the air. “All power to the people!”

“All power to the people,” the crowd responded. Everyone jumped to their feet.

As class broke up, Maxie hurried toward the tables. Raheem sauntered over to me. He studied me up and down, like he was trying to figure me out. “You finally decided to come, eh?” He hung his arm across my shoulders. “So, what'd you think? What'd you learn?” He grinned. Was he being serious, expecting me to answer?

“He really knows what he's talking about,” I said, nodding at Leroy.

“Leroy knows where it's at, for sure,” he said. He leaned
in closer to my ear. “But you got to wait till you hear Fred Hampton. That brother can talk you to tears.”

“Yeah? Who is he?” I asked. Maxie moved forward in the breakfast sign-up line.

“He's the Chairman. He started this whole thing up here in Chicago. You keep coming out, he'll be here one of these times. See you next week?”

“Sure,” I said. I had no idea what I was going to do ten minutes from now, let alone next week. I checked the clock. Nine o'clock! Mama was going to rip into me for sure.

Maxie was still moving from table to table, apparently signing up for everything. I'd have liked to walk her home, but I really needed to go. I waved to her and headed for the door.

“Sam,” Stick called. I turned back. He walked toward me. “What?” I tried not to sound hopeful. He wasn't going to say what I wanted him to.

Stick let out a long breath. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to say—good night.”

“You know, you could come home with me,” I said, unable to hold my tongue. Stick didn't bother to answer, he just looked at me. I couldn't meet his eyes. I didn't want him to know it was hard for me to stand alone. Stick had to be more alone than anyone.

“Sam, I can't compromise. Not on this. There's too much wrong.” His gaze was so heavy, I could feel it pressing down on me.

I stepped closer to him, and he reached out and hugged me, tapping my back with his fist.

“I'll see you around.”

“Yeah,” I said, tamping down as much of my frustration as I could. “See you.”

I slipped out the door, welcoming the cool air that brushed against me. A bit of the tension lifted off me, but not enough. I bent into the wind and headed home.

I felt all stirred up inside, so much that I couldn't make sense of my thoughts. I walked past the auto shop, trying not to look, but thoughts of Bucky filled my head. Bucky's smile, Bucky's blood. I turned onto Bryant Street, passed the spot where Bucky had fallen. I could still see him lying there. I hurried on.

I crossed the street to avoid the place where I'd stood when I heard about Dr. King, when the riots started. The images hurtled through my mind. The sounds. Glass breaking, the sizzle of flames, the whack of a nightstick.

I had to get off this street. I wanted to run, but I'd rather be in trouble with Mama than in jail. The cops see a brother running at night, they pick him up for sure. I didn't need a meeting to teach me that.

It wasn't much farther to the end of the street. I let out my breath as I turned the corner—and came face-to-face with Father.

He stopped short. “Sam?”

I ran up and wrapped my arms around him like I was five years old. Father touched my back lightly. His fingers moved over me as if he were checking for broken bones.

“What are you doing here?” he said over my head. His voice sounded strange. Not angry, or sad, or disappointed, not even surprised, just—blank. His hands folded over my shoulders.

I stepped away, feeling stupid for being so afraid. His eyes searched my face. What should I say? “Uh, my friend Maxie, she lives—”

“Sam, it's nine o'clock. Your mother must be out of her mind over you.”

“She knows I'm here. I told her where I was going.” It was technically true.

Father wrapped his arms around his chest. “She let you go out after dark?”

“It wasn't dark when I left.” That was stretching it.

He drew in a shaky breath. “Come on, let's get you home.”

The car was parked a couple of blocks away, very close to where the meeting had just taken place. I couldn't let
myself bask in the relief of having Father to walk with me; it was overshadowed by the fear that we might run into Stick. I didn't know what would happen then. My world had been fractured enough already—it hurt to wonder what more might happen. Father usually knew how to fix things, but he wasn't himself lately. Even now, his silence frightened me. No lecture. Barely a reaction to my being out when I wasn't supposed to be. I didn't recognize this sad, quiet version of my father. He seemed deflated of the energy that had always defined him. He unlocked the car door for me and opened it. I looked at his face then, and something deep, so deep inside me shattered into a thousand pieces.

What would have been a twenty-minute walk took just a few minutes in the car. We drove in silence most of the way home, Father glancing at me from time to time. “What do you have there?” he asked, pointing to the papers in my hands.

I pulled the Panther information closer to my chest. “Homework.”

Father regarded me out of the corner of his eye. “And you have it with you?”

“Maxie needed some help with math, so I came and showed her.” Why did I have to lie? The shards already loose in me dug deeper.

Father nodded, steering the car into our driveway. “I
don't want you out after dark, Sam,” he said as we walked to the door. “Straight home from school tomorrow. No detours. No outings, you hear?”

The reprimand lifted my spirits some, made me feel more normal. But I couldn't come straight home tomorrow.

“Samuel.”

“Yes, I hear.”

He opened the door and motioned me inside.

Mama leaped out of her chair and flew across the room as we came in. “Samuel Childs, where on earth have you been? You won't leave this house for a month, so help me. Where have you been? Answer me. Answer me!” I didn't have a chance to speak. She pulled me down and hugged me to her. I rested my head on her shoulder for a second, then straightened up.

“Sam, go to your room,” Father said. I started to move away.

Mama pointed her finger at me. “Don't even think about leaving this room without explaining yourself.”

“Marjorie—”

“Roland.” Mama was too mad to speak further. Her mouth moved silently. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at Father. He stood very still, returning her gaze.

“Sam, give your mother and me five minutes,” he finally said. I didn't need to be told twice. I spun around and went
toward my room. “But we aren't finished here,” Father called after me.

They waited in silence until I had closed the door behind me. Not that it mattered. Moments later, their voices drifted through the walls.

“What were you thinking, letting him go out at night?” Father said. I groaned and flopped down onto my bed. I glanced at the open window, but it'd be worse if I snuck out again. Much, much worse. I crawled to the end of the bed, near the block tower, and closed my eyes, longing to be engulfed in the magic protection of its walls. But my imagination betrayed me. I could only picture the gun, the block tower's magic destroyed by foreign invasion.

“I didn't
let
him anything, Roland. Where did you find him?”

“Bryant Street.”

“I see. And where was he before that?”

“Doing homework with Maxie. I'd rather he bring her over here. It's not safe for him to be—”

Mama laughed. The gently musical sound echoed eerily down the hallway. “You need to open your eyes, honey.”

Silence, long and heavy. I came off my bed and opened the door.

“He said he was with Maxie. Sam doesn't lie.” I felt sick to my stomach.

“I suppose he doesn't sneak out the window after I've told him he can't go out either.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Get him out here. I'll talk to him.”

“And say what?” Mama sighed. “Never mind, you always think of something.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I sat on the floor in the hall and leaned against the doorjamb, practically holding my breath. I hugged my knees to my chest. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd heard my parents fight. They disagreed, they discussed, they debated, they retreated to their bedroom to hash out their differences out of my earshot. But fight? Almost never. Definitely never over me.

“You're missing the point, Roland. This is Sam we're talking about. Sam. We're losing him, too.” Her voice shook with anger and fear. I rested my head on my knees.

“Sam is not Steve,” Father said.

“How do you think it occurred to him to go out the window?”

“Sam's different. He is not going to—”

“What would you have done at his age?”

The floorboards creaked as Father began to pace. Back and forth in front of the windows, the way he did when
searching for inspiration for one of his speeches.

“My situation was totally different. The first demonstration I attended was in law school.”

Mama stamped her foot. “Forget the demonstration. Forget the world for a minute. Look me in the eye and tell me what I can say to our sons to give them hope.”

Father spoke quietly. “I feel their pain, Marjorie—why do you think I'm doing what I do?” He rarely used this low tone of voice, and it meant he was out-of-his-mind furious. The angrier he got, the steadier his voice became, until it seemed as if he were speaking words etched in stone.

Mama's words, in contrast, were sharp and clear, sliding like daggers from her tongue. “While you are thinking about the community, the city, the country, I think about this family. I don't care what you say from behind the podium, but you can't walk in that room with more of the same.

“It was easy when they were little. When they looked up at you. You might as well have been God to them then. But they're not little anymore. They're finding their own ways now, and finding truths other places than in you.”

Father's pacing stopped. “I don't have to listen to this.”

“No, you don't.” Mama laughed again, but not happily. “Close your ears and open your mouth like you always do.”

“Marjorie—”

“It's okay, though. I don't need to be heard. They do.”

Silence. So much silence, I fought the urge to go out and make sure everyone was still breathing in the other room.

“I'm going for a drive,” Father finally said. “Don't look at me like that. You don't want me to talk to Sam. What am I supposed to do?”

Silence. I pictured them staring each other down as they had when Father and I had first walked in.

“Drive then,” Mama said. “Just know that you're going to end up right back here with me, with Sam, with all the same problems in front of you. You'll have to deal with us sooner or later. Not talk to us. Deal with us.”

“Fine. I'll stay and we can argue some more.”

“Let's.” Mama came around the corner. She stopped short when she saw me sitting there. “Samuel, get in here,” she said, as if I hadn't heard the entire conversation.

I trudged back to the living room, feeling as though I were headed for the guillotine. If it always felt this way to break rules and get caught, I was better off being good.

“Explain what happened tonight,” she said. “Pick up your head and look at me.”

“Yes, Mama.” I breathed deeply and looked in her eyes. I couldn't lie to her. She knew. Somehow, she already knew. “I went to a political education class.”

“What were you thinking?” Father's granite demand
placed the last straw on the load I was carrying.

I spun toward him. “What do you want from me?” I shouted.

Father's stunned expression sucked the fight out of me. I'd never talked back to him. Never. He gazed at me with slack-jawed incredulity. I had shocked him into silence, and that was saying something.

“Sam,” Mama said sharply.

I lowered my gaze to the carpet. It swam in front of my eyes. “I had to go, Mama.”

Her tone softened. “Tell me why, baby.”

Why? If only I could explain it, what it felt like to run in place, to see the same things day after day and not be able to do anything about them. How it felt to be alone in a dark room in the middle of the night, with a gun in the tower and the whisper of wind through the always-open window, knowing there was nowhere else for me to be.

Father and Mama were expecting me to speak. She nodded gently, and I knew I had to try to say something out loud.

“I—I wanted to know what it would be like. And—and Maxie was going. Everything's real bad right now, and I wanted to see Stick. I wanted to see if there's something I can do.”

“Are you hearing this, Roland?”

He nodded curtly. “You've made your point. Let's move on.”

“Move on to what?” I cried. “So you know where I went. So I'm grounded. So what? It doesn't change anything.”

“There's a lot you can do, son. Bucky's trial starts next week. You know we're holding a demonstration.”

I nodded.

“There's a lot to be done before then, though. You can help me.” He cleared his throat. “I'd like it if you'd help me.”

“All right,” I said, too tired to protest. Bucky's face floated in front of me. But thoughts of him always ended on the pavement, with a thwack, a cry, and the churning of my stomach.

Father sank down onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his forehead. I stood beside the couch, waiting. When he raised his eyes to me, he looked so drained, as if he didn't even have the energy to be upset with me. I could see his sadness, sense that something was broken in him, too. “Get to sleep, Sam. You have school tomorrow.”