The Rock and the River (17 page)

“Stick!”

His eyes opened, zooming in on me.

“I'm sorry,” I told him, mouthing the words. I felt sick inside, but Stick seemed calm, so calm, it was strange.

“It's okay. It's going to be okay,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“Stick!” I shouted again. He didn't open his eyes.

Everything became still.

The air.

My body.

The entire world around me. The horror transpiring in front of me, suspended for one disbelieving instant.

Until then, I had never known anger, the kind of coiling rage that slid sharp through my gut. I had never known how much one moment could hurt.

“Face down on the ground,” the cop yelled. But I was stuck, my eyes locked on Stick. The cop stepped closer, cutting off my view.

In my mind I was leaping forward, lunging at the cop. My fingers clawed out his throat, our hands grappling together for control, our bodies straining to learn who would live and who would die. The urge was so alive within me that I had no idea what force was keeping me still.

The cop grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face into the pavement. That was real. Tiny pebbles
scratched my cheeks and nose, and I choked on the smell of tar and rubber. The handcuffs squeezed cold and tight against my wrists. I pinched my eyes shut, tried to close my ears to the sound of sirens and the voices of cops. A stream of “what ifs” flooded my mind. But it was too late to change anything.

R
AHEEM AND I SAT QUIETLY IN THE SMALL
cell, waiting for word of Stick. It seemed we had been locked up for hours, but they wouldn't tell us anything.

“He's going to be all right,” I said. Stick always made everything all right.

Raheem said nothing. I jumped up and paced the length of the cell. My shoulder ached where one of the cops had kicked me, but it was nothing compared to the knot of fear in my stomach.

“Where did they take Bucky?”

“It's worse for him, because he just got out.”

“But he's not guilty,” I said. “They decided.” I spoke the words, but they were meaningless. It didn't matter what happened in court. I should have known.

Raheem fingered the bruise along his jaw, which had begun to swell. “They weren't going to let him go,” he said.
“It doesn't work like that. We just didn't think it would happen so soon.”

The truth settled into my bones. If they wanted Bucky, they could have him. They could do anything they wanted.

Why had I even testified? What was the point? I cringed inside at the thought. Stick was right about me. Here it was, after the fact, and I was still trying to walk away. I shook off the doubt. I had testified, and Bucky was set free. For a short while, he'd been free.

“How can they be mad at Bucky? They lied. He didn't do anything.”

“Tell a story a certain way enough times, and you start to believe it,” Raheem said. “Doesn't matter if you know it isn't true.”

I walked to the door of the cell and looked down the hall. No sign of anyone. I gripped the bars. “Stick's going to be all right,” I whispered.

A door slammed. Muffled voices echoed along the hall.

“Sam,” Raheem said suddenly. “Don't answer any questions. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. Heavy footsteps approached.

“Look at me.” Raheem spun me around and held my shoulders. “Don't tell them anything until your dad is sitting next to you. You hear me? Anything.”

“All right,” I said. The look in his eyes was scaring me.

Three cops appeared. They led us out of the cell and upstairs. They put Raheem into one room and me into another. I sat in the only chair at the table, facing the big mirror. My reflection startled me. The side of my face was scratched from the pavement and my hair puffed unevenly. I almost closed my eyes, but I didn't. Was someone watching me through the glass?

A cop in uniform and a man in a suit came in. They closed the door and stood across the table from me. I had to lean my head back to look at their faces.

“How're you doing, there, boy?” the man in the suit said. His eyes narrowed a bit when I didn't answer.

“Let's talk about how you got here,” the cop said. He moved to the wall and leaned against it. His hand rested against the nightstick at his belt. “Why don't you tell us what happened?”

“I want to see my father,” I said. “Can I call him?”

They glanced at each other. “He's on his way,” the man in the suit said. “We just have a few questions for you while we're waiting.” He sat on the edge of the table nearest me. I pushed my chair back.

He chuckled. “It's all right, Sam. We're all friends here.”

I folded my hands, squeezing them together hard. The
man's eyes glinted as he watched my movement. “A few simple questions, Sam, nothing serious. Let's start with who was in the car with you.”

I stared at my hands.

“Now, son, you know we already know who you were with.” The soothing tone of his voice made me feel sick. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a pair of glasses. I saw his badge hanging from his vest pocket. I'd seen that kind of badge before, on the Special Agents who came to observe Father's demonstrations.

“Raheem Brown was driving, wasn't he? Yes, that's what it says here.” The agent flipped through the file in his hand. “And Clarence Willis?”

“And then there's the young man in the front passenger seat. Your brother, I believe?” He peered at me over his glasses. “He took two bullets to the chest. You'd like to know how he's doing, wouldn't you?”

I trembled in my seat. It was all I could do not to nod, not to beg him to tell me Stick was all right.

“I'll tell you.” He studied his fingernails, then locked eyes with me. “As soon as you tell me what you know about the Black Panther Party.”

I closed my eyes. The table creaked as the agent stood up. I felt him pass behind me.

“No, let's come back to that later,” he said. “I'm still
interested in what happened at the car.” He moved around the room like a shark, circling me.

“And then there are the rifles to think about. Four, I believe. All loaded.” He consulted the file. “In the backseat, weren't they? Right at your feet?”

I jerked. The agent slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. “Something you wanted to say, Sam?”

I blew out my breath. If Stick were here, he wouldn't play this game. I clung to that thought. I tried to close my ears, to look away from the agent's slick grin.

“As I was saying, the officers are taking prints off the guns now.”

My eyes widened. I knew I shouldn't react, but I couldn't help it. The agent chuckled.

“Don't be afraid, Sam. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. In fact, I'm willing to forget all about this, if you can provide me with a little information.”

My heart thumped. I tried to swallow, but my mouth went dry.

“You, Raheem, Clarence,” he paused. “Your brother. We'll let everybody go.”

He leaned closer to me, lowering his voice. “Are you a member of the Black Panthers?”

I could barely breathe. I knew I shouldn't speak, but
maybe if I said no, he would leave me alone.

The door opened. The agent turned to face the cop who entered. “What is it?” he snapped. The cop jerked his head, motioning the agent into the hall. Father's voice boomed outside, demanding to see me. I relaxed a bit, knowing he had come for me.

 

They brought Raheem and me out a while later, and told us we could go. Father was standing near the front desk. I stopped. I didn't want to go over to him.

“No,” I said backing toward Raheem. “I don't want him to take me. I want Stick.”

“Go with your dad, Sam,” Raheem said. “Go home.”

“Where is Stick?” I said. “Where is he?” But I already knew. I knew the moment I saw Father's face.

Father crossed the room.

“No,” I said, trying to step behind Raheem, who moved out of the way.

“Sam.” Father placed his arm around my shoulders. “He's gone. He died a few hours ago.”

I should have felt something. Anything. But I didn't. I walked toward the door. Father followed me out to the parking lot.

“I'm not going with you,” I said. I hadn't planned to say it, it just came out. I kept walking.

“Sam, you are going to get in that car, and we are going home.”

I ignored him.

“I thought I raised you boys to make good decisions,” Father said, breathing hard as he tried to keep up with my pace. He should have been home, in bed, but he had come for me. Still, I didn't slow down. “You're taking after Steven now,” he said.

My stomach churned. I welcomed the feeling, let it fill the void in me. I turned to face Father. “Don't blame him. He didn't do anything wrong.”

“I want to know what you were doing in that car.”

The anger returned then, in a way I hadn't imagined possible. Anger can come into you so tangibly, so physically it's like a separate person. As if someone enters your body, stands there with one fist in your throat and the other tight around your gut. It's like tears you can't cry, but stronger, more insistent. Deeper. And it won't let go. It's cramped and it's crying, but it won't let go.

“Stick is dead!” I shouted. “None of the other things matter.”

“Don't raise your voice to me.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

His eyes smoldered. “I haven't even begun.”

Out of nowhere, his arms hooked around me, locking
me to his chest. “Sam. Sam,” he whispered into my hair. I could feel his heart beating, sense the sorrow in his frame.

I shoved away and ran. Father called after me, his voice breaking on my name. He couldn't come after me.

I ran until Father's voice faded behind me, until sweat poured into my eyes and onto my cheeks, until I choked on the air whipping against my face. I tumbled to my knees in a patch of grass, letting my forehead and my fingers touch the earth.

“Stick,” I whispered. I spoke his name over and over into the dirt, until my voice faded into nothing.

T
HE LAKE WAS A SHORT DISTANCE AWAY
. I had no idea I had run so far. I took off my shoes and walked down to the water. Each wave lapped at my toes with a sound like a whisper. I stood surrounded by water and sky, and it seemed the night could swallow me.

I remained still and silent, but the creature within me growled its way deeper and deeper into my soul. I lost my sense of time, just standing in the dark. Reliving the events that had led me to this place. The red wetness in Stick's palm. The sound of my own screams. The hate in the cop's eyes, the reciprocal hate blossoming within myself. The clang of holding cell bars. The interrogation room mirror and its thousand invisible eyes. The agent's oily grin, trying to grease me for information I didn't even have. And somewhere, hiding at the back of it all, the ache that, moments before, I'd been so happy over Bucky's release. We'd all been laughing.

Stick, gone.

The unfairness of it overwhelmed me. Bucky hadn't deserved to go to trial for a meaningless accident. Raheem had not been speeding. Father, stabbed, who had never lifted a finger to hurt anyone. None of them deserved what had happened. Least of all, Stick, who had done nothing but leave a gun in a tower. It should have been me. I deserved it, I deserved it all.

The water rushed in and out around me. A second pair of bare feet appeared beside mine in the sand. Maxie was standing next to me. How had she found me? When had she come? Her warm fingers slipped into mine. She pressed my hand.

I blinked, suddenly alert. Maxie whispered, “I'm so sorry,” but the lake swallowed the sound of her voice. Silent tears rushed down her face as we stood there, our wet toes touching. We stood there for a long time, while the night settled in more deeply. The wind off the water grew cool.

Maxie held my hand as we walked back up to the grass. We sat on a bench and put our shoes on. Maxie cried into my shoulder, hugging me tight. My own tears had gone.

“I'll walk home with you,” she said.

I lowered my head. “I can't go home yet.” I couldn't get
a grip on what was happening, but it was all my fault.

“Come home with me, then.”

I had nowhere else to go. We headed for her block.

 

Maxie opened the door to her apartment and pushed me through ahead of her. Raheem was pacing beside the window. He stopped when we walked in. Father was sitting on the sofa.

“Thank you, Maxie,” Father said, standing up.

I stepped back. “You knew he was here?” I asked Maxie.

“He was worried about you.” She moved closer, placing her hand on my arm. I yanked it away.

“I can't believe this. I told you I wasn't—and you—”

“You should be with your family,” Maxie whispered. The clock on the wall ticked its way closer to one
A.M
. Maxie's betrayal stung. I turned to leave.

I'd never seen Father move so fast. He got between me and the door before I even had my hand out to turn the knob.

“You are coming home with me, Sam. It is not open to discussion.” His voice held its familiar thunder, but he pressed his hand against the side of his body, wincing as he spoke.

No one moved. Father couldn't make me go with him,
and he knew it. But I couldn't stand the pained look in his eyes.

“You're supposed to be resting,” I said. It sounded stupid to my own ears.

Father stepped forward. He put his arms around me, and the part of me that wanted to run away again shut down. He held me so tight, I forgot what had happened and for a moment, everything was okay. Then he let go.

“Your mother needs to see you,” he said. “To know you're all right.”

Raheem crossed the room. “Sam.” He folded me in an awkward hug. I was too surprised to return it. He spoke in my ear. “I'm going to find the cop who did this. You can count on that.”

I pulled back. The cold light in Raheem's eyes matched the tone of his whispered promise: this wasn't over yet. I nodded.

Maxie slipped between Raheem and me. She hugged me in her gentle, knowing way, but it didn't make me feel close to her.

 

All the lights were on, and there were several cars in the driveway when we drove up. Father parked at the curb. We sat in the car without speaking for a moment, then I got out. Father followed. He pulled a bag from
the backseat and carried it inside with us. A black leather sleeve poked out of the bag. Stick's clothes. My stomach tightened.

At the door, Father paused, his hand on the knob. “Thank you,” he said. “We love you very much, you know.”

I nodded, looking away.

Mama was sitting on the sofa, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. Leon Betterly's wife and two ladies from the church sat with her. She jumped up and came to me. She ran her hands over my arms and smoothed back my hair. She whispered against my cheeks as she kissed me.

Mama clutched my shirt and looked over my shoulder at Father. She cried out, moving around me, and tore the bag from Father's hand. Stick's clothes spilled onto the floor. Jacket, shoes, socks, belt, beret. His shirt and pants were missing. I shook my head to erase the image of Stick's blood rushing over them.

Mama hugged the leather jacket to her. She dropped to the floor, rocking back and forth on her knees. The other women put their hands on her. Their quiet cries made my ears ache.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door, but I could still hear them. I lay down and pressed the pillow over my ears. It blocked the sounds from the other room, but it couldn't block the pain. I didn't want to feel, or think, but
I was overrun. Stick was everywhere, in my head, in my heart.

The door opened.

“Don't go away from me,” Mama whispered, touching my cheeks. Her tears dripped on the backs of my hands. She sat beside me until I fell asleep.

 

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of tapping at the window. I leaped out of bed and stumbled across the room. I pushed the curtains aside.

“Stick?” I said, yanking open the window. Cool air brushed my face. Night sounds surrounded me, but no one was there. I sat on the edge of Stick's bed, holding the curtain in my fist, staring out into the night.

 

In the morning, Father knocked on the door. When I didn't answer, he came in, anyway. His eyes misted when he saw me curled up on Stick's bed by the window. He cleared his throat.

“I'd like to talk about what happened yesterday,” he said. I closed my eyes.

The mattress shifted as he sat down beside me. “It's a terrible time, Sam, but I need you to tell me about it.”

I lay still. I couldn't tell him anything. I couldn't stand to think about what had happened, though it played over
and over in my mind. After a few minutes, Father left me alone.

I sat up. Stick's leather jacket lay on the foot of his bed, where Mama must have left it the night before. I touched the cool, smooth leather. My fingers moved over the rough-edged hole in the front. I shivered.

At the foot of my bed, the block tower loomed, jagged and leering. The mess of blocks still all over the floor, because I hadn't had the energy to deal with it since then. The sight of it made me queasy—this thing Stick and I had built together, and half destroyed together. And now he was gone. It meant nothing without him. I leaped across the room, throwing my body into the tower, thrashing my arms and legs until it was nothing but a cascade of blocks upon the floor.

In the brief moments it took to tear down our years of work, I felt nothing. I had no thoughts, not one glimmer of intention. I was fueled purely by the desperate need to make something happen. But the tower caved into rubble long before the feeling was satisfied.

Breathing hard, I stood among the spilled blocks, surveying the damage I'd done. It wasn't enough. I thought back to Raheem's whispered vow, to find the cop who'd taken Stick from me, from the world. I breathed easier then. There was one other thing I could make happen.
One other thing that might balance what had happened.

I took a roll of dark tape from the hall closet and patched the hole in Stick's jacket with a wide X. Then I slipped it on. The shoulders drooped onto my arms a bit, and the sleeves hung past my wrists, but it felt nice.