The Rock and the River (16 page)

“You're the one who talks about playing by the rules, about working within the system. You said I could help Bucky, but you didn't mean it, did you?”

“You don't know these people like I do,” he said. “You don't know.” He struggled to sit up straight, but grimaced. I moved closer to help him. He leaned back
against the pillows, breathing hard. I sat on the edge of the bed.

“I think I do,” I said, looking into Father's ashen face. “That's what this is about.”

“You are already visible because you're my son. This will put you—don't you know I worry about you?” He took my shoulders. “Promise me, Sam, promise me you'll never pick up another gun. No matter how angry you get.”

“Father—”

He looked into my eyes. “I need you to promise me, Sam. I need to hear you say you understand.”

I pulled away. Father tried to hold me, but I rose to my feet, out of his reach. I could promise and he would believe me. I could say everything would be all right, and maybe it would be. But I didn't know for sure.

“Sam.” The word rang like a chime in the silence, the sound rippling out over me, over everything.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

He turned his head away. “You tell your brother that if he comes home, you can testify.”

My heart skipped. “He'll come home when Bucky does,” I said.

 

Mama and I brought Father home a few days later. Father and I sat quietly the whole way, listening to Mama chatter
on about anything she could think of. As we pulled into the driveway, she finally ceased her endless monologue. The silence became huge.

I helped Father out of the car. He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked to the house. I could tell he was trying not to lean against me, but he had to, so he did.

It was a long walk to the bedroom, but we got Father situated in bed. I tried not to look in his eyes. Maybe all the things we'd left unspoken between us could remain that way.

Mama returned to the car to retrieve a few items, leaving us alone. Father seemed settled enough, so I headed for the door.

“Sam.” The fragile silence shattered.

“Yes.” I dropped into the chair near the bed.

“You're going through with it, then.”

“Yes. We testify on Monday. I'm sorry you think it's the wrong thing.”

His face took on a mix of surprise and pain. “I don't.”

I sprang up. “Then how could you say no without even asking me? After I told you what I saw.”

“I want you to understand.”

“No one thinks I understand anything.” I paced along the foot of the bed. “I get it. All of it. I do.”

Father gritted his jaw and levered himself up on his
hands. “And just what understanding led you to bring a gun into this house? To take it in your hand and threaten someone's life?” His face paled a few shades and he leaned back against the pillows, releasing several quick shallow breaths.

“It wasn't even loaded.”

A thin layer of fury steamrolled over Father's face, smoothing his features.

“It wasn't even loaded?”
he repeated. “Do you think that even—How can you—Have you learned nothing from me?”

“I guess not,” I said, knowing it would hurt him. I didn't know why I wanted to do that.

The sadness in his eyes overwhelmed me. I walked out of the room.

S
TICK TOOK ME BACK TO THE PANTHER
apartment to meet with Bucky's lawyers. We all sat around the table—me, Maxie, Stick, Leroy, and the two lawyers. I had met one of them before. Clive Billings was a friend of Father's, a black lawyer who had worked with the NAACP for a while. I didn't know Eric Richman, the white lawyer, who looked very natural in a tie and briefcase.

“Eric is lead counsel,” Clive Billings told Maxie and me, which meant he would be the one asking us questions in court. We practiced for a while, and it was easy enough. But then they started talking about what would happen when the prosecutor questioned us.

“They may ask you about the Panthers, Sam, and we don't want to let it go there,” Eric Richman said. “We'll do everything we can to prevent it. They'll have to prove that
it's relevant to the case against Bucky, and we don't think they can do it.”

A woman wearing the Panther leather jacket walked in, holding the hand of a girl about three years old. The little girl immediately trotted across the room to Leroy.

“There's my girl,” Leroy said, scooping her up in his arms. He kissed her stomach. She giggled.

The woman laid a stack of papers on the table. “This is everything Roland suggested,” she said. She lifted the child off Leroy's lap. “Come on, Nia, Daddy's working. Let's go get everybody something to eat.”

“Roland?” I said, sitting up straighter. “As in, my father?” I looked at Stick. He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded.

“Roland's helping us prepare our defense,” Eric Richman said. “The more heads the better on this case.”

Father, who hated the Panthers? “Are you sure he's really helping?” I asked.

Stick stood so fast, the table jumped. “We've been going for a while. Can we take a break?”

Leroy nodded, stretching his arms over his head. “I, for one, could use some food,” he said. “I'll go see what my wife's up to in the kitchen.” He left the table.

The others began stretching as well. Stick seized my arm and practically dragged me from the table and into the
next room. He shut the door behind us and released me with such force, I sat down hard on the arm of one of the chairs.

“Do you even understand what we're doing in there?” Stick demanded. His tone caught me totally off guard.

“What? Yeah, sure,” I said.

“I don't think so.” He paced along the bookcase in front of me, his body stiff with anger.

I rose to my feet. “What's your problem?”

Stick came forward, close to me. “This is not about me, it's about you. You say you're ready for this life, but you have no idea what it's about. And you never will until you learn to look past the surface of things.”

The accusation stung. “I don't have to listen to you.” I didn't need this from Stick right now. I was trying to concentrate on the trial preparations. I went for the door.

“This, right here. This is the problem with you.”

“Yeah? How's that?” I tossed the words over my shoulder, halfway to the door.

“You give up too easily, Sam.”

“What?” My steps faltered. “No, I don't.”

“Then why am I looking at your back?”

I spun around. “I'm here to testify. I'm not walking away.”

Stick shook his head. “I'm trying to talk to you, and you
don't like what you hear, so you want out. It's that way with everything. Things get a little rough, or boring, or don't go the way you want and you walk away.”

“You should talk. Things are a little rough at home right now. Look who left.” I lifted my chin. He
had
left first, and had left behind much more than I ever had.

“I left to
do
something. Not to get away. It's different.”

“You're still gone.”

His eyes flashed and I expected him to utter a crashing retort. Instead, he leaned his arms against the back of a chair and sighed. “Did you know we're going to build a clinic? Right on this block, where people can come for free?”

“I know,” I lied. “I go to the classes too.”

Stick sort of chuckled. A strange sound, coming from him, and not very funny. “One PE class and now you're an expert? This is a commitment, not a whim.”

I could commit. I could. “I'm trying to help Bucky,” I said. “What do you want from me, Stick? What?”

He pushed off the chair and stood tall. “For starters, if you have anything to say about Father, say it to me or say it to yourself. Don't bring it in here. You got that?”

“I didn't—”

“Bucky's life is on the line. Father will move any mountain he can in order to get him acquitted. Don't accuse him of being anything less than committed.”

“Father doesn't want anything to do with the Panthers,” I said. “He hates them.”

Stick clamped his hand over the back of his neck and leaned into it. “Sam, you're seeing the slim side of the coin.”

“It's true! He hates violence in all its forms, but especially guns.”

Stick sighed. “So do I, Sam,” he said quietly. “How is it that you don't know that?”

I looked up in surprise. Stick lowered himself into one of the chairs. The anger flowed out of him, like a balloon losing air. He rested his forearms on his thighs and ducked his head.

“Look, as long as you think being a Panther just means carrying a gun, you won't be able to understand what's happening here.” He kept his head down for a while and moved his hands against each other thoughtfully.

When he finally spoke, he raised intense and weary eyes to face me. “It's the Panthers' ideas that people fear most, not our guns. We're telling blacks that we can fix some of our problems ourselves, that we don't have to wait to be accepted into the white mainstream to have our day come.”

Stick's gaze dug into mine, and he spoke with a certainty that I wished I could feel within myself. “The guns are an
idea. Not even that, actually. They just represent an idea. It's really about a breakfast for hungry kids and the clinic that's going to go up in a year or so. I'm talking about people who have to wait for hours to get seen at a hospital, just 'cause they're black, and people who never go to a regular doctor because they cost too much.”

Stick was getting crazy intense. His eyes shone. I tried to tap into his passion, but my head only filled with questions.

“It's about defending Bucky, and making sure what happened to him never happens again,” Stick continued.

The mention of Bucky brought familiar images to the surface. I dealt with them, shoved them back deep into my memory. But they rose again, bringing friends this time. For once, I saw more than Bucky on the pavement. I saw his smile, his gray overalls, the orange suit he'd worn the day they brought him into the courthouse. I saw him shoveling oatmeal into his mouth, and lifting his sister Shenelle onto his shoulders.

As Stick went on, I let myself be captivated by his words, swept into his vision of the movement. I had been so deep inside Father's for so long that it felt good to rise above what I knew. I entered another space in that moment, as if I could see a corner of Stick's mind that had long been hidden from me.

“It's the difference between demonstrating and organizing,” Stick said. “Between waiting for handouts that aren't coming, or taking care of each other the way we have to. It's the rock and the river, you know? They serve each other, but they're not the same thing.”

Leroy knocked on the door and poked his head through. “Sandwiches,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt, but it's a free-for-all in there, so I'd get a move on if I were you.” He withdrew.

Stick and I sat in silence for a few more minutes. His words were still swirling in the air around us, and I breathed deeply, trying to draw them into myself.

“So now what?” I said finally.

Stick slugged my arm. “So, now we eat,” he said. “Then we get you ready for court. After that, it's up to you.”

M
ONDAY MORNING, I WENT DOWN TO
the courthouse with Maxie. We were both dressed up in our best church clothes. Maxie looked really good in the yellow dress she was wearing, with her hair pulled up in a clip. We waited in the hallway for the judge to call us inside.

Maxie slipped her hand into mine. I jumped a little.

“Other things aside,” she said quietly. “I need something to hold on to.”

I squeezed her hand. “This is for Bucky,” I said. “We're all he's got.”

“For Bucky.”

I concentrated on how nice it felt to hold her hand again, and began counting the ridges on each of her knuckles. Anything to keep from thinking about why we were there. I wondered what was going through Maxie's mind.

The bailiff stuck his head through the door and called out, “Miss Maxie Brown?”

Maxie stood up and went over to him. “Here,” she said. The bailiff escorted her inside. She turned her head toward me as she passed through the door. I nodded and smiled.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door reopened. Maxie emerged, the bailiff right behind her. I tried to catch Maxie's eye, but she turned away from me.

“Mr. Samuel Childs?”

I took a deep breath and went inside. The tall doors thumped shut behind me. I expected the courtroom to be huge, but it wasn't. Still, the walk to the witness stand seemed to stretch for miles. I followed the bailiff down the narrow aisle, my eyes on the nightstick dangling from his belt. I imagined everyone in the room staring at me, but I didn't look around to see for sure. The bailiff stepped aside to let me pass him into the front of the courtroom. I raised my eyes to the judge, who peered down at me through enormous eyeglasses attached to a chain around his neck.

I stepped into the witness stand, released my nervous breath and faced the court. There was Bucky, sitting between Clive Billings and Eric Richman. Several Panthers were in the audience, Stick among them. He appeared strong and confident as he nodded encouragement to me. I
tried to hold my shoulders tall like him, hoping I could look strong too.

A few other people sat scattered throughout the pewlike rows, perhaps reporters, and a man with a sketchpad. He moved his pencil swiftly, glancing up at me from time to time.

Father was there, sitting with Mama across the aisle from Stick and the Panthers. He wasn't supposed to be out yet, but he wouldn't hear of me testifying without him being here. I wished his presence could make me feel better, but I worried that I wouldn't live up to what needed to be done. He would be disappointed.

I snuck a look at the jury. All men except for two women. All white. A jury of Bucky's peers. I held my breath to keep from laughing, or crying, out loud. Did they have it in them to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt? Maybe one of those men was a mechanic, at least. Maybe one of their fathers had died, and they knew what it was like to have to provide for a mother and sister when you are only eighteen.

The bailiff thrust a Bible in front of me. Over his shoulder, I met Bucky's eyes. He stared back, but his look was hollow, lacking any of his usual spark. Hopeless. I had never seen him stand so still, or go so long without a smile. It was as if the end was already given, and what I
was here to do didn't matter anymore. I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

 

“How did you feel?” Maxie said later. We were back at the Panther apartment, alone, except for the guards in the hall. We had returned a couple of hours ago, and collapsed onto the couch next to each other. Stick was working at the auto shop. Raheem and Leroy had stayed down at the courthouse, where the jury was deliberating. I looked at her.

“When you were up there,” she said. “What did it feel like?”

“Like it wouldn't be enough,” I admitted. “I'm not sure they believed me.” The jury had probably made up their minds before the trial even began. It had happened a thousand times to people we knew. I didn't really know how to hope that things would work out for Bucky.

Maxie nodded. A tear slipped out of her eye and she brushed at it with her knuckles. I lifted her hand from her face. “What's wrong?”

She lowered her head. “No. It's just, what you did for Bucky—”

“What we did.”

“It means more coming from you.”

“Hey. Two is still better than one.” I touched her chin and she smiled. “You probably said it better than me, anyway.” Her smile deepened.

“We did everything we could, right?” she whispered, turning her face up to me.

I couldn't think past the tears in her eyes. I leaned in to kiss her, forgetting that I wasn't supposed to anymore. Our lips touched. I pulled back. Maxie gazed up at me.

“It's okay,” she said. “I want you to.” And just like that, we were back.

I leaned toward her just as Raheem burst through the door. “Not guilty!” he yelled. “The verdict is in. Not guilty! Can you believe it?”

Maxie and I jumped up. “Are you serious?” she said. I could only stare at Raheem.

“Yeow!” he whooped. He scooped Maxie up in his arms and twirled her around. “Bucky's coming home, girl!”

“Heem!” she cried. “I can't believe it!” She hugged him and he lowered her to the floor. She turned to me, a huge grin on her face. We kissed.

“Okay, break it up,” Raheem said a few moments later. “That's my sister, you know.”

I quickly stepped away from Maxie. I chanced a look at Raheem, expecting a glare, but he was smiling. He nodded
to me ever so slightly, and I remembered that he wanted us together.

“Come on, Sam, my man.” He moved toward the door. “We gotta go get Buck.”

“I'm coming too,” Maxie said.

Raheem pointed to the desk. “Someone has to stay and make the calls.”

Maxie shot him a look. “And I guess that's the girl's job.”

“You got it, little sister,” Raheem said, chucking her under the chin. Maxie looked to me. I shrugged. It wasn't my call. I hardly got to go anywhere either, so I wasn't going to mess up my chance by crossing Raheem.

Maxie narrowed her eyes at me as she scooped up the calling lists. I might be worse off for crossing her.

“Maybe she could come,” I said. “I'll help make calls later.”

“Don't start,” Raheem warned. “I don't want you to come either, but Bucky asked for you.” He walked out.

“Don't say I didn't try,” I said to Maxie as I trailed him out the door. She made a face.

Downstairs, Raheem was unlocking Leroy's car. He pulled four shotguns from the backseat and held two out to me. “Trunk.”

I hesitated, and Raheem raised his eyebrows. My
fingers closed around the neck of each gun. I thought of Father. Did I do the right thing by not promising him, by leaving him to worry about me every minute? I frowned.

Raheem shrugged. “It's Bucky's day. No guns.”

“Okay.” I placed the guns carefully on the floor of the trunk. Bucky wouldn't want them up front.

We went by Roy Dack's to tell Stick the news. Stick and Roy both came bursting out of the garage as Raheem pulled in, honking madly.

Raheem and I exchanged a glance. “Not guilty!” we yelled out the windows. Stick nearly fell over. We jumped out of the car and went over to him.

“I can't believe it.” Stick clasped hands with Raheem, then turned to me.

“You did it,” he said, hugging me tight. “You did it.” His praise filled me up. I didn't know what to say.

“We're going to get him now,” Raheem said. “Can you come?” We all looked at Roy.

The older man sniffed. “Four hours to go on your shift, and you're asking to take off.”

“No, sir,” Stick said quickly. “Not at all.”

The wrinkles in Roy's cheeks shifted as he rolled his mouth a few times. “I suppose it won't hurt me to lose one evening's help,” he said. He patted Stick's arm. “Go get our boy. Bring him home.”

“Thanks, Roy.” Stick grinned. “I'll make up the time.”

Roy waved his hand. “No, no. Go on now.”

We returned to the car. Stick maneuvered out of the coveralls as we drove. “They're all yours again, Buck,” he murmured, tossing them in the backseat. “Where's my coat?”

“In the back,” Raheem said. I handed Stick his jacket and beret.

We picked up Bucky at the courthouse. He jumped in the backseat with me and tapped the back of the passenger seat, where Stick was seated. “Get me outta here,” he said, smiling.

“You got it, brother,” Raheem said, then whooped loudly, honking the horn as he pulled into traffic. The rest of us followed suit, cheering, stomping feet and pounding doors.

“All right, all right,” Stick said, waving a hand. “Leroy probably wants his car back in one piece.”

We stopped the frantic celebrating, but everyone was jubilant. Even though we wouldn't have admitted it out loud, in our wildest dreams, we never thought Bucky would be acquitted.

“I think he'll be happier to have Bucky back in one piece,” I said, nudging him with my fist.

Bucky caught my neck in the crook of his elbow and
knuckled my hair. I couldn't believe how skinny his arm felt against me. “Hey, I knew you missed me,” he said. Then his tone turned serious. “Thanks. For standing up for me. You don't know—”

“Hey,” I said, brushing off his thanks even though the words reached deep inside me. “Of course.” I met Stick's eyes in the rearview mirror. A crazy, awkward gladness filled me. Maybe, finally, I had done something right.

Raheem launched into a funny story. From time to time I caught Stick studying me in the mirror, and we would laugh together in a way we never had before. When I wasn't concentrating on Stick, I watched Bucky. The spring was back in his movements, and his eyes twinkled as he grinned his toothy grin. There was an edge to his laugh, though, a hardness that I figured was leftover fear. He would be back to normal again before long. Bucky always bounced back; that was his life.

We laughed harder than I could remember doing in a while. Everything had seemed so heavy, so serious for such a long time. Something great was happening here. Between me and Stick, between me and Bucky, between all of us. I could barely believe that I'd had a part in making it possible.

We had almost made it back into the neighborhood,
when lights flashed and a siren blipped behind us.

“I always knew you had a lead foot, Raheem,” Bucky said. He half smiled as if he was still joking with us, but no one laughed.

I caught Raheem's worried glance in the rearview mirror, and my stomach tightened.

“Look at the speedometer,” Raheem said to Stick under his breath.

“I see it. Just pull over. It's worse if you don't.”

Raheem eased the car onto the shoulder of the road. I peered out the back window. Both officers emerged from the squad car and approached us, pistols drawn. One came up to Raheem's window.

“Is there a problem, Officers? I believe I was driving below the speed limit.”

“License and registration. Move slowly.”

Raheem removed his license from his wallet and handed it to the officer. “And registration?” the officer said, nodding.

Stick lifted his hand to the glove compartment. He flipped the latch and the little door fell open.

The gun! It was still sitting there, where Leroy had shoved it when we'd raced away from the demonstration. I had forgotten all about it, and from the way he jerked his hand back, I could tell Stick had too.

“Gun!” the cop at the window shouted. He fired two rounds. The explosion of sound started me shaking. Bucky clawed his fingers into the seat between us, letting out air in a desperate sigh.

“All of you, out of the car,” the cop screamed. “Now!” The shots still echoed in my ears.

My heart thumped as I opened the door. Raheem got out of the driver's seat and Bucky did the same. I was halfway out of the car when I noticed Stick hadn't moved. I looked over. His hand fell away from his chest, a pool of red in his palm.

The cop was shouting at me to get out of the car, to keep my hands where he could see them. My fingers curled around the top of the half-lowered window.

“Stick?” I said.

He turned his head toward me. The look in his eyes said everything. Then Raheem's hands were on me, pulling me away from the car.

I fought it. “No!”

“On your knees!” the cop said. “Hands in the air.”

“Stick!” I screamed, straining against Raheem's grip.

“They'll shoot you.” Raheem spoke into my ear. “Do you hear me? If you go near him, they will shoot you.”

“On the ground!” The cop waved his gun at us.

Raheem squeezed me tighter. “Do it,” he said as he
released me. He dropped to his knees beside me. Bucky was already down.

A trembling calm came over me as Raheem moved away. I stopped screaming and stood still. The cop motioned me to the ground with a jerk of his head. Behind him stood his partner, gun still pointing toward the open car window.

I didn't look at the car, at Stick. Instead, I looked at the cop as I kneeled in front of him. The naked hatred in his eyes struck me deep. He was ready to kill me.

“Sam.” Stick's soft call tore through me. Through the open backseat door, I could see into the car. Stick was sitting in his seat, his head turned toward me. I had to get to him. I lifted one knee off the ground and put my foot down.

“Sam, no,” Stick whispered.

“On your knees,” the cop shouted. I had to get to Stick, but I couldn't.

“It's my brother,” I shouted. “Please.”

“On your knees, or I'll shoot!”

I dropped my leg, never tearing my eyes from Stick. He was just a few yards away. I could see the blood running out of him, spilling over his hands and onto the car seat. He leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes.