The Rock and the River (3 page)

“For real?” I couldn't tell if he was messing with me. I sat back down on the bed.

“Don't worry about it. He thinks it was all my idea,” Stick said. “You're still his good little boy.”

I laced my fingers together. “Didn't you tell him?”

“No reason to. It's covered. He expects this from me.”

I got up. “I'm going to tell him it was my idea.” Stick always stood up for me, tried to keep things from me, but I could be brave too.

“Sam, don't be stupid. It won't stop him from being mad at me. We'd just both be in trouble, is all.”

“I can handle it.” I wasn't sure I could, but Stick didn't have to know that.

“He wouldn't believe you, anyway.”

“Stick—”

“Shut up, already! My head is killing me,” he snapped.

Stick turned over, facing away from me, and lay in his bed without moving. It was too early to sleep, but I threw on some pajamas and climbed into bed. If he didn't want to talk to me, I didn't want to talk to him.

I had fallen into a calm and fuzzy place, almost asleep, when I heard muffled sniffing sounds coming from Stick's side of the room. I woke up instantly, alarmed. Stick never cried.

“I can't take it anymore,” he whispered.

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure he was even talking to me. So I lay still, in the dark.

S
UNDAY MORNING, IT SNOWED. THICK FAT
flakes, the kind you could catch on your tongue. Stick had the curtain pulled back with two fingers. He sat on the edge of his bed, all dressed and ready, staring into the white sky.

“I messed it up again,” I said, fumbling with my tie. I'd wrapped and tucked it over and over, but the skinny part kept sticking out the bottom. I gave up, letting the ends hang down my chest. “I could tie my old tie,” I muttered. I'd gotten a new one from Mama for Christmas. Stick kept saying the tie just wasn't broken in yet.

“How's your head?” I asked, sitting down to lace up my shoes. Stick touched his fingers to his temple, but didn't answer.

“Breakfast, boys!” Mama called. Stick let the curtain drop back into place and walked past me out of the room. I shuffled after him, wrestling with my tie.

Mama had a stack of waffles waiting on the table when Stick and I slid into our places. Father was flipping through the Sunday paper. When Stick sat down, Father laid the front page across his plate. Stick blinked, then looked back up at Father. I craned my neck to see across the table, but I couldn't read anything. I stood up for a better angle.

The story on the front page wasn't coverage of the demonstration. It was us. A picture of Stick and me leaving the hospital, his head all bandaged and me looking spooked as all get out.
CHILDS'S SONS BEATEN AT PROTEST
, the caption read. I sucked in my breath.

Mama walked in from the kitchen with a bowl of warm syrup and set it on the table. She took one look at the three of us and started rubbing the back of her hand against her forehead.

“Eat up, you two. We're going to be late for church,” she said. When neither of us moved, Mama sighed. She pushed aside the paper, then forked two waffles onto each of our plates and spooned syrup over them. “Come on, now.” She walked to the living room window, murmuring about how this might be the last good snowfall for the winter and we'd better enjoy it while it lasted.

I dug into the food because I was starving. We'd skipped dinner, but I hadn't realized it until right then. Stick sat there, looking at his food.

“Are you going to eat?” Mama asked him. He shook his head. I grabbed the waffles off his plate and put them away in a hurry, before Stick could change his mind.

 

Church was extra crowded. We sat all pressed together in the pew, with me wedged between Father and Stick. Neither of them had said a word all morning. I hadn't said anything either. Mama kept chatting us up, trying to get some conversation going. But we were wearing down her tongue.

We sat in our usual place, in the center section, fourth row from the front. Close enough, I supposed, so that God would definitely know we were there, but not so close that we appeared to be hogging too much of the Holy Spirit.

The choir filed into their two special rows behind the pulpit, gold robes rustling reverently against the dark wood pews. They had the best spot in the house; warm sunlight streamed over them through the stained-glass windows on either side of the altar. I lamented for the hundredth time the impossibility of creating stained-glass windows with blocks. That was one thing the castle was missing.

The pipe organ wheezed out the opening notes of a familiar tune. I lifted the worn hymnal and smoothed my fingers over the pages as I flipped through them. My voice
was low, since I wasn't a good singer. Stick had a better voice, but he didn't join in, and I felt more alone than ever.

Stick stared straight ahead. I watched the row of neat black stitches across his temple. They moved up and down slightly as Stick clenched and unclenched his jaw. I wondered if it hurt.

Father's voice was strong as the congregation moved on to the second verse. I snuck a glance at him. His eyes were closed, his fingers wrapped around Mama's hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. The song made sense for me, and for Stick. Maybe even for Mama, but not Father. I never knew him to be discouraged.

 

It was a miracle Stick and I survived the fellowship hour. It got plain annoying. Everyone flocked around us,
patting and poking me and reaching for Stick's bandage as if they could heal him with a touch. I smiled real big and did the best I could to keep them at bay, but Stick grunted only the minimum response, just enough interaction to keep Father satisfied.

I was used to crowds, to attention, but Stick and I usually tackled the mobs together. He would be real charming, and all the old church people loved him. My job was to stand there, shake hands, and throw out yeses and noes as needed.

When we finally escaped to the parking lot, I was bursting with frustration.

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“For what?”

“All your help back there with the old-goat patrol.” That was our secret name for the old ladies who had their noses so far up everybody's business that they couldn't smell anything but gossip. They would quote the Bible like regular people toss out song lyrics. To hear them tell it, they were right there when Moses came down off the mountain. Some of them looked old enough too.

“You didn't say two words to anyone,” I said. “Those guys knock all the brains out of your skull yesterday, or what?”

“Shut up.” Stick hauled off and hit me. Not pretend, either. It actually hurt a little.

I rubbed my shoulder where the punch had landed. “Hey. What's wrong with you, anyway?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Snap out of it, would you?”

“I said, shut up, before I hit you again.” As he spoke, Father emerged from the front of the church. Mama was close behind him.

I grinned. “You gonna hit me while
he's
watching?” Stick glared at me as he crossed to the other side of the car and got in.

 

I thought Father was going to make us do a lot of chores or something to make up for yesterday, but the atmosphere in the house was punishment enough. Stick and I sat at the dining table after dinner doing our homework. Father worked at his desk in the living room, keeping his head down. He cleared his throat and sighed from time to time, the cold waves of his disappointment washing over us even from that distance. Mama puttered around doing whatever she usually did on Sundays: preparing her lesson plans, ironing a few shirts, running lots of water in the bathroom for some reason. She came out looking a little red-eyed. Still, she was the only one of us acting normal.

Then the phone rang. My whole body tensed. It rang
again. All of us fell into a state of suspended anticipation, a slow-motion moment. On the third ring, Mama lifted the receiver off the dining room wall.

“Hello? Oh, Coretta, hello.” She turned her back on Stick and me, facing the living room. Father finally looked our way, though the expression on his face made me wish he hadn't.

“Yes, they're both fine,” Mama said. “I'm surprised the news traveled all the way to Atlanta.”

Stick and I exchanged a glance at this unexpected twist—Dr. King's wife calling to see if we were okay. It never occurred to me that Dr. King himself might find out what we had done. Judging by the frown on Stick's face, he hadn't thought of that either.

“Yes. Yes, I know,” Mama said. “I thank God every day that they come home.”

No one seemed to realize we'd fought. We were victims, in the world's eyes. But not in Father's. I couldn't bear to look at him.

Though he never said it, Father was always worried about disappointing Dr. King and the others, disappointing the movement. I supposed it must be hard being famous, the way people look too closely at everything you do. The way you can never stray too far from the thing you're famous for without the world getting up in your business.

It was that way for me at school sometimes, like when Father was arrested a few years ago. Or like last year when Dr. King spent a few months in town “stirring up trouble,” as the white folks liked to say. Since it was me in trouble this time, not Father, it could be worse than even last year was. I dreaded going to school the next day.

“Well, we'd love to have him visit Chicago again,” Mama was saying. “There's always a place at our table.”

I got a weird feeling when she said that, like it was just yesterday Dr. King had been over for dinner. I'd come home from school in a grumbly mood, what with all the comments I'd been dealing with at school. Father and Dr. King had been doing a lot of work in the projects, housing work. Every day, I heard about it—not because people were unhappy that he was here, but because the police presence in the neighborhoods they were working in was extreme.

“Come in here and rinse these greens,” Mama had called the instant I came in the door. “We're having company tonight.”

“What company?” I grumbled, entering the kitchen. “Do we have to?”

“Dr. King, for one,” she said, then proceeded to list a few other friends of Father's.

“Really?” It had been a very long time since I'd seen Dr.
King up close and in person, though Father got together with him often. Sometimes they traveled together.

I washed my hands and started rinsing dirt off the leaves. I surveyed the meat, vegetables, and dough Mama had set out on the counter. “We're feeding Dr. King pot pie and collard greens?”

“Martin's been on the road for six months, baby. Even famous preachers need a good home-cooked meal from time to time.” She spread a circle of dough over the pan, pressing the edges into place. She peered at me out the corner of her eye. “Anyway, are you saying my pot pie's not good enough for Dr. King?”

“Your pie's the best, Mama.”

“That's what I thought you said. Hmm. I put my foot in that pot pie.”

I wrinkled my nose as dramatically as possible. “Smells great, Mama.”

She'd laughed. “It doesn't smell at all yet; it's not cooked.” She'd squeezed my nose between two knuckles. “But you get points for working your way onto my good side.”

One thing was certain: I wouldn't be getting points for anything today.

Mama shifted from one foot to the other, her back still to us. “Yes, Coretta, please do send him our best. All right. Take
care. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone, then retreated to the bedroom without acknowledging any of us.

I wished she would have said something, I didn't know what. Anything might have made me feel better.

Father turned back to his work. Stick let his head drop in his hands. His posture echoed the way I felt. Few things were as bad as disappointing Father or Mama, but knowing that Dr. King might find out we'd messed up was one of them.

I remembered feeling this exact way last year, the same night Dr. King came over for dinner. I'd barely thought about that night since then, but I recalled this feeling. Like we'd crossed a line without even meaning to.

That night, Stick and I had gone to our room after the meal, where we were supposed to do our homework. We did, but we also cracked the door so we could listen a bit to the meeting going on in the living room.

Sometime after dark, the window rattled, and we both looked over. Stick's friend, Bucky Willis, waved from outside, motioning for us to open the window. His breath fogged the glass.

Stick leaned over and popped the lock, lifting the sash. No sooner had the glass cleared his forehead than Bucky practically dove into the house, landing with a thud in the middle of our floor.

“Hello, boys.”

“Shhh!” Stick and I exclaimed in unison, creating a sound altogether louder than Bucky's entrance had been. I leaped to the door, pushing it closed. Stick shut the window quickly before too much cold air came in.

Bucky's eyes rounded beneath the slight brim of his afro. “What's up?” he whispered. He shook his shoulders out of his too-thin winter coat and blew on his fingers.

“What are you doing here?” Stick asked. He glanced at me as he spoke. We both knew why Bucky had come. Ever since his family lost their apartment, Bucky'd been living on the street. He often snuck in after bedtime to crash on our floor, especially now that it was full-on winter.

Footsteps in the hall. Father. Stick shoved Bucky's shoulder. “Get in the closet. In the closet—now,” he whispered. Bucky did, easing the door shut behind him as Stick and I assumed studious postures on our beds.

Father knocked and opened the door. “Everything all right?” he asked, surveying the room.

“We're fine,” Stick said. He had long since perfected the innocent look. I, on the other hand, kept my head bowed over my history textbook. My inability to bluff had cost us smaller battles than this one.

“We heard a noise.” Father went to the window and peered out, his jaw tense. “Did you hear it?”

“I, uh, threw a book at Sam,” Stick said, sounding appropriately guilty but contrite. I didn't know how he managed it. “It was kinda loud when it fell, I guess.”

“It kinda hurt, too,” I mumbled, trying to do my part.

Father moved back to the doorway, resting his hand on the knob. “Well, some of the men stepped out to walk around the house, just in case.”

That gave me chills. One time, someone had thrown a brick through our bedroom window in the middle of the night, and the living room windows, too. Anything that could happen to me and Stick, or to Father alone, could happen ten times over with Dr. King around.

I lowered my head again, suppressing the urge to tell Father that it was only Bucky. I'd tell him anything to smooth the worried crease from his brow. Father looked at each of us again, then closed the door.