The Rock and the River (4 page)

Stick opened the closet door to release Bucky, who put on a mock pout. “You really know how to make a guy feel welcome. What was that about?” The silly expression morphed into genuine uncertainty. “I thought your father didn't mind me coming over. Is it cool, for real?”

Stick shook his head. “Yeah, but not now. We have special company tonight. Dr. King and some other folks.”

“No kidding?” Bucky looked at me and smiled, exposing the prominent front teeth that had earned
him his nickname. His real name was Clarence.

“Sure thing,” I said. “We had dinner, and now they're meeting with Father.”

“I can't believe he's in your house, man.” Bucky shook his head. “Dr. King himself.”

“He's supposed to be here. You're not.” Stick jerked his head toward the window.

Bucky put his coat back on, then sighed. “I got nowhere for tonight, brother.”

“You can come back later, when they're gone.”

“You ain't gonna introduce me?” Bucky grinned, smoothing down his collar like he was prepping for a date.

“Get out,” Stick said, not in a mean way. We didn't really want to send Bucky away, but we didn't want to get in trouble in front of Dr. King and everyone either.

“Sending me out into the cold,” Bucky said with a sniff. “I understand. I do.” He conjured up his best, most pathetic wounded-animal eyes.

Stick groaned and rolled back against his pillow. “Stay. But keep your big mouth shut.”

Bucky's wide grin was like money falling from the sky—free, but you felt like you'd earned it.

“You ain't never heard a mouse as quiet as me.” He shrugged out of his coat and resettled himself on the floor between our beds. “Yes, sir. You won't even know I'm here.
Not a whisper. Not a breath. Quiet like nothing. Quieter.”

Stick pulled the pillow from under his head and chucked it to the floor. Bucky took it in the chin and shoulder. We all laughed.

“Shut up and read something, man. Under the bed.” Stick motioned with his foot toward the scattering of books and magazines beneath his bed. Stick's half of the room was crowded with reading material; he read just about everything in sight.

Bucky nodded but reached for his own bag instead. “I brought something of my own to read.”

Stick sat up. “Yeah?”

I turned from my pretend studying to look too. Reading was Bucky's least favorite pastime, mainly because he wasn't all that good at it. When he came over, Stick made him read magazines just to keep him quiet, but we both knew Bucky flipped through the pages studying the pictures and diagrams but ignoring the words altogether. He was smart, but not word-smart like Stick. He could fix anything that had moving parts—in fact, Father often said Bucky'd make a brilliant engineer if he'd settle down long enough to finish school. But he didn't have time for school anymore, not with his sister, Shenelle, and their mom to support. He worked long shifts each day at Roy Dack's auto shop, trying to save enough to get his family back into an apartment.

“Sure thing,” Bucky said, extracting a newspaper from his bag. He displayed it proudly in front of him. “Have you seen this?”

Stick's expression hardened. “Yeah.” He took the paper from Bucky and folded it up before I got a good look. “You can't read that here. Not now.”

“Hey, I want to see.” I moved up from the end of my bed, getting closer to Bucky. Stick frowned at me, then glared at Bucky.

“Another time,” Stick said. He handed the paper back to Bucky. “Put it away.”

I leaped off my bed and grabbed the newspaper out of Bucky's hand. Stick shot me a don't-you-dare look. I sent back a dirty look of my own. If something interesting was happening, I was not going to be left out. I unfolded the page. “‘
The Black Panther
,'” I read aloud. “‘All power to the people.'”

“Sam.” The single syllable sliced through the air. “Later.” His tone was so sharp and thick with annoyance, maybe even anger, that I released the paper into his hands. He swatted Bucky on the side of the head with it.

“Dr. King is in our living room, and you want to sit here contemplating armed revolution? I don't think so.”

Bucky held up his hands. “Whoa. Put away the big words, bro. I'm not trying to get militant. Not my style. But
new things are happening out there. It's exciting.”

“Out where?” I was confused.

“Oakland, in California,” Stick said. “And people getting killed is not exciting.” He dropped the paper in Bucky's lap. “It's not even new.”

“No, man. That's not even what I'm talking about,” Bucky said. “They've got these ideas about how things should be.”

Stick lay back on his bed. “Well, we all have that, Buck. Really, we'll talk about it later.”

Bucky opened the paper. “Right here”—he pointed—“it says they want everyone guaranteed a place to live, no matter what. I dig that.” He spoke quieter than usual, keeping his head down. He moved his finger along the page. “And here, it says they want black people released from prison because the system is so messed up. Well, you know how I feel about that.”

Stick and I fell into a respectful silence. Bucky's father was killed by prison guards a year or so earlier. He shouldn't have been in jail in the first place, but that was how it went.

Stick scribbled something in one of his notebooks and showed it to Bucky. Bucky folded the Panther newspaper and replaced it in his bag. He took a magazine from Stick's pile and reclined against the bed, flipping through it as
casually as anything. I wondered what Stick had written that so completely silenced him. Bucky was a lot of things, but discreet was not one of them.

 

That was more than six months ago. I'd never heard either of them mention the paper again. In fact, I'd all but forgotten about it. I shifted in my seat, wishing I could forget it all again. I didn't like the feeling the memory inspired—the vague sense that the world around me was not as I believed it to be.

I
WAS RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING: CHURCH HAD BEEN
bad, but school was a whole other nightmare. Everyone had seen my picture in the paper.

“Hey, Sam, you all right?” The sentiment echoed down the school corridors. It got to the point where I couldn't tell who was asking anymore. I could've had blood gushing out of ten places and I think I would've said, “Yeah, fine.”

Days like this gave me a glimpse of what it was like to be popular, which usually I wasn't. Stick was the type who gathered lots of friends and admirers, had girls coming after him and all of that. I was the one in the shadows. Out in the world, I was Roland's son. Here at school, Steve's little brother. Listening to all the voices around me acting concerned, I remembered that even though everyone knew my name, no one really knew me. It was probably just as well—I could never be as strong as Father or as smooth as Stick.

Normally, I didn't mind the learning part of school as much as most people did, but that day, I considered skipping class. Everyone else did it from time to time, but not me. It wasn't the sort of thing I could get away with. Aside from the annoying fact that my parents could always sense when I disobeyed them, Mama actually worked in the office of my school, just two narrow desks away from the daily attendance rolls.

All day, I couldn't concentrate. My mind traveled in a hundred directions. Nobody called on me, so I felt free to zone out. During history, I looked out the third-floor classroom windows at the buildings in the neighborhood. This class faced away from the projects, out toward where I lived. The land sloped up into a slight hill, which was great for looking down on the houses. Several streets of row houses were closest to the school, then behind them the streets widened some and there were individual houses, like the kind we lived in. I noticed the way the roofs all sloped at the same angle on one street, then shifted to a different angle on the next. If I ever got to build houses, I wouldn't make them all the same in a line like that.

Father and Mama wanted me and Stick to go to college and everything. When I was little, I assumed that meant we were supposed to become lawyers, like Father. I could see Stick as a lawyer, making speeches like Father, or like the
ones on TV who defend wrongfully accused people. But not me.

Once, I asked Father if he thought I'd make a good lawyer. He said I could be good at anything I put my mind to. I was in fifth grade at the time, and filled with an odd sense of bravery, so I told him I didn't want to go to college, I just wanted to build things. He said I didn't have to be a lawyer, I could be anything I wanted—that's what college was for. The next day, he brought me a book about famous buildings and the men who had designed and built them. That's when I decided that I wanted to be an architect.

I paid a little more attention in math, because it was one of the most important subjects for architects. Plus, it was a windowless classroom, so there wasn't much else to look at besides the chalkboard.

Sitting through class was rough, but the worst was when Maxie Brown passed me in the hall. She didn't even look over. I would have preferred being invisible to everyone else, but not to Maxie. Usually, we at least made eye contact.

After last bell, I hurried to my locker. The paper bag with the mittens was sitting on the shelf. I stared at it for a moment. Today was supposed to be the day I finally got through to her. That had been the plan, but now, it seemed dumb. I couldn't believe I'd even imagined that
some stupid fuzzy mittens would get her to like me.

I closed my locker. Why make a bad day worse?

 

In the evening, Stick and I sat at the table doing our homework. I always did math first, because it was my best subject. Stick was a word man. He was busy scratching out some kind of essay.

Mama stood scrubbing dishes in the sink, singing to herself. Mama loved to sing, but she was always a little off-key when there wasn't any music going. She had her feet moving and her backside waving and suds splashed up along the side of the sink. She launched into some high, squeaky melody and Stick and I glanced at each other. I wrinkled my nose. He grunted and moved his pencil.

Father was sitting in his chair in the living room. He had some papers spread open on his knees, but he wasn't really working. His head was turned toward the kitchen door, and he was smiling a little. He caught me watching and cleared his throat.

“You done, Sam?”

“Not yet.” I went back to my problem set.

Father stood and went into the kitchen. He came up behind Mama and grabbed her waist, dancing with her back. He dragged her from the sink, twirling her around the kitchen.

“Roland, my hands are wet,” she cried. She tried to hide her smile. Stick and I both stopped working to watch them.

“I love a woman who sings while she works,” Father said. He kissed her cheek. “I don't even care if it is off-key.”

Mama beat on his chest, then pulled free, glaring at him. She moved back to the sink, turning around to toss Father a dry dishtowel. “I love a man who dries my dishes. Even if he does insult me.”

Father laughed. He took the dishtowel and held it tight between his fists. He did a little footwork moving toward the counter.

“Let's hear some more sweet tunes.” He leaned in to kiss Mama again, but she ducked away.

“Uh-unh. You want singing, call Diana Ross. Now, are you gonna stand there and dance or are you gonna help me with these dishes?”

Father began drying the plates. “You've got to watch what you say, because you know if that Diana Ross came knocking at the door calling my name, I might just have to go with her.”

Mama whipped the dishcloth at him. Water splattered all over him and the dishes he'd just dried.

“Now you've gone and done it.” Father frowned, mopping his face with the drying towel.

Mama pointed at the row of dishes. “You missed a spot.”

Father looked up at the ceiling and started humming “Rescue me, and take me in your arms, rescue me.”

Stick bent over his essay again, but I kept watching the two of them in the kitchen. Father was hardly ever so cheerful. I should have been more proud of him for being famous. But I wasn't. I wanted him like this. Dancing in the kitchen, with a smile on his face and no one's eyes on him but mine.

A loud knock at the door startled all four of us. Stick and I both jumped about a mile. Father and Mama looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Father tossed the dishtowel at Mama. “Diana, here I come,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

Mama snatched the cloth out of the air and waved it at him. “You go on, now, I can't be bothered.”

Father backed through the doorway, still humming.

“Who is it?” Mama called.

“Fred and Leon,” Father said. As he opened the door, I saw Fred Wood and Leon Betterly standing on the porch.

Mama twisted the faucet so the water flowed more gently. Better for listening in, I supposed. Stick and I stood up to greet Father's best friends. They had been with him when he first went to march with Dr. King, and had walked
beside him through everything—riots and marches, fire hoses and police dogs. He never had to ask—they were always there. I wondered if I would ever be strong enough to know how it felt to stand up.

“Steven. How's the head, son?” Fred bellowed at Stick.

Stick always touched his head when anyone mentioned it. “Hi, Mr. Wood. It's much better, sir, thank you,” he said.

“Good to hear it.” Fred was short and thin, but what he lacked in size he made up for in volume. Father never conferred with Fred in public—he didn't know how to whisper.

Father clapped Stick gently on the shoulder. “Why don't you boys finish up your work in your room.” We gathered our books and went down the hall.

Once we were in our room, we did anything but study. We tossed a little plastic ball back and forth for a while, and I tried to think of a good way to ask Stick what I should do about Maxie.

“Hey, Stick, you know that girl I was telling you about?” I tried to sound casual.

Stick snorted. “Which? There've been so many.”

I frowned. “No, there haven't.” Stick laughed harder. He was messing with me. “Stick—”

“I know, I know. Maxie Brown. She's definitely got it.”

“Got what?”

“What it takes. Pretty, smart, funny—all that stuff.”

“You don't even know her. How do you know she's smart and funny?” She was both, of course. And pretty, too.

“Well, I figure you wouldn't fall for a girl without a brain in her. And she's got you running left and right chasing after her, so she must have a sense of humor.” Stick grinned. I lobbed the ball hard at his head. He winced as he ducked out of the way.

“Well, so, I went to the gift shop yesterday,” I began.

“Yeah, what was with that?” Stick said, the grin creeping back across his face. “I see you carrying a hospital gift shop bag around, and yet I get nothing.” He held out his hands.

I laughed. “Not for you.”

Stick scowled. “You go to the gift shop and you don't even bring back a gift for the poor, wounded patient. Your brother, I might add. And then you have the nerve to ask him for advice? Shoot, you'd better keep on walking.”

My smile dropped as I remembered being in the gift shop. “For real, though,” I said. “I don't know what to do.” I told him about the mittens and my plan for Maxie, careful not to say too much about what had happened.

Stick sighed. “Look, you already bought the mittens. The worst that can happen is she'll dis you and still keep them. Best-case scenario, you get a kiss. Not a bad range of odds.”

I nodded. I felt a little better about things, but the thought of walking up to Maxie always made my stomach flutter.

Stick breathed like he was about to speak, then he paused. “Also, you shouldn't avoid doing something worthwhile just because you're afraid of what might happen.”

I nodded again, but somehow, I wasn't sure Stick was talking about me and Maxie anymore.

 

I walked out of school the next day, clutching the brown sack, and immediately scanned the schoolyard for Maxie. I spotted her on the front steps, and walked over. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” Maxie stood on the third step down, arms crossed. I took a moment to look at anything but her. The scarred brick face of the school, three floors and a thousand sad stories tall. The chain-link fence marking the playground edges. Funny how it had barbed wire at the top, as if anyone would try to get into school if they didn't have to be there.

“Can I—” My tongue got all tied up and I chickened out. I sighed. This was supposed to get easier. She knew it was coming, anyway. I asked the same question practically every day, and she always gave the same answer. Maxie stood there, waiting to complete my humiliation.

“Can I walk you home?” I said.

“I know my way home.”

Sometimes I thought maybe she waited outside just to hear me ask so she could say no. Stick said girls played games like this all the time, and if you wanted to get anywhere you had to play along until you learned the rules.

“I know,” I said. “Just for company, I meant.”

Maxie raised her eyebrows. I held my breath. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said quickly. She pulled her bare hands up inside the sleeves of her coat. “I gotta go.” She started to walk away. I swallowed hard. Now or never.

“I got something for you,” I said. The words came out mumbled like I was clearing my throat or something. She would never go for me.

“What did you say?” She turned back to me and wrinkled her forehead.

“This is for you,” I said, holding out the paper bag.

“Yeah?” she said. “For me?” She stood there looking at me, looking at the bag.

I shifted my feet. “Yeah. I thought they were—nice. I mean, I knew you didn't have—I thought you'd like them.” It was maybe thirty degrees outside, but I stood there sweating.

I shook the bag until she took it and peeked inside. The corners of her mouth shot up, and she gave me a bewildered, wide-eyed look.

Maxie slid her hands into the mittens. Then she smiled as big as I've ever seen her smile. “Thanks, Sam. What's it for?”

What's it for?
“Uh, for you,” I said.
So you'll let me walk you home.
“No reason.”

Maxie grinned again. “Well, come on, then,” she said. She skipped down the stairs and strode across the schoolyard. I stood stuck in place. I couldn't believe it. In the middle of the yard, she turned around. “Sam! Are you coming, or what?” she yelled.

I ran and caught up with her at the edge of the schoolyard. She snapped her fingers at me. Well, she tried, anyway. The mittens made it tricky, but I knew what she was doing, so I laughed.

“Gotta keep up, man,” she said. She grinned. I grinned back. It didn't get any better than that.

We started toward her house. She walked fast for a girl, I thought. Like she had places to be and nothing could keep her from getting there. I liked that. I wanted to go places too.

She didn't say a word to me as we walked, but I was too happy to care. She looked up at me once, though, as we passed the last intersection before the long stretch of projects began.

I studied buildings a lot, partly to get ideas for the
block tower. It struck me odd, each time I thought about it, how buildings could have such personalities. The stores and apartments Maxie and I walked past had seen sad times, and looked as if they'd taken much of the sadness upon themselves. They reminded me of children lined up in an orphanage—seen but abandoned, together but alone. Unloved.

I almost reached for Maxie's hand right then, but I feared it was too much too soon. As we approached the corner of her street, she slowed. We turned onto her block, and she walked even slower. In front of her building she stopped altogether and turned to me. “Well, this is it,” she said, staring at her toes.