The Rock and the River (5 page)

“Okay,” I said. I already knew where she lived, but I wasn't about to tell her that.

She raised her head and looked straight at me with a strange light in her eyes. “And?” she said, her tone daring me to comment.

I looked up at the building, at its eight rows of windows, like worried eyes gazing down upon the street. I shrugged. “And what?”

She blinked and smiled. “Never mind. Nothing.” She shook her head. “Aren't you cold?” she asked.

“Nah, it's not so bad,” I said, trying not to shiver. My face was freezing, but I didn't care. If Maxie wanted to
stand out here and talk to me, I wasn't going to complain.

She nodded and tugged her hat down over her ears. She half smiled up at me. She was so cute, I had to look away so she wouldn't think I was some kind of freak, staring at her. She cupped her hands and blew into her new mittens.

“Warm,” she said, flashing me that great half-smile again. “Feel.” She put her hands on my cheeks. Warm was an understatement.

She pulled her hands away, and we stood there for a few minutes longer.

“So, I guess I'd better get going,” I said finally.

“Yeah,” she said. “See you.” She went toward her building. At the door, she turned around and waved both hands at me. I smiled as I walked up the block.

I slowed when I saw Stick standing on the opposite corner, talking to a slick-looking brother in a black leather jacket and heavy combat boots. The brother was tall, had a three-inch crown of hair on top of him. He and Stick clasped hands, then pulled together and bumped shoulders. The brother leaned in the window of the car idling beside them, pulled out a small flat box, and handed it to Stick. He thumped Stick on the back, got in the car, and drove off.

Stick turned the box over in his hands, studying it closely. A moment later he raised his head and spotted me. He looked a little surprised, but nodded hello.

I crossed the street. “Who was that?”

“A friend,” Stick said, looking after the car. We started walking toward home.

“What friend?”

Stick rubbed his hand over his neck and looked at me sideways. “What are you doing over here, anyway?”

I shrugged. “Just walking Maxie home.”

“Yeah?” Stick gave me a sharp look out the corner of his eye. “She your girl now, or what?”

“Naw.” I kicked the ground. “We're just friends.”

“We're just friends,” he mimicked. I slugged him in the arm. He staggered to the side, laughing.

“Shoot, that was weak,” he hooted, jogging a circle around me.

“C'mon back, I'll get you good,” I threatened, smacking my fist into my other palm.

Stick grinned. He knew I was bluffing. I didn't feel like fighting him. I was still thinking about Maxie.

Stick moved back around beside me. I caught a glimpse of something in his hand.

“What did he give you?” I asked.

Stick cleared his throat. “Loaned me a book,” he said. He lifted it so I could see, then lowered it fast. I couldn't read the title.

I stuck my hand out. “Can I see?”

“Maybe later,” Stick said. He blinked a lot, which meant he was lying. Stick usually told me most everything I wanted to know. When he got secretive like this, it meant something bad. I shivered. Stick could keep his secret. I didn't want it.

A
FEW DAYS LATER, I MET MAXIE ON THE
corner of her street at six thirty in the morning. We walked in silence toward the school. Maxie tucked her chin into the thin collar of her coat. She had her hands in her pockets, but the edges of the purple mittens poked out around her wrists. On the way home today, I would hold her hand. Maxie glanced up and caught me looking. I stuck my hands in my pockets. Maybe tomorrow.

“So, why'd you want to meet me so early?” I asked.

Maxie skipped a few steps ahead of me, then turned around and walked backward so we were looking at each other. “For breakfast.”

I only had fifty cents in my pocket. “What are we eating?”

“Whatever they're serving.”

“Where?”

“At school. You know, The Breakfast.” She spoke like it was in caps: The Breakfast.

“I've never been.” I kept walking, Maxie in front of me. Garbage bags lined the curb waiting for collection and the concrete was uneven in places, but she moved right down the center of the sidewalk, never taking her eyes off me.

“Never?” Maxie stared at me. “It's free, you know.”

“I know,” I said, as if I knew. “Turn left.” Maxie spun around front and we turned into the schoolyard. Rows of tables lined the pavement and dozens of children had gathered to eat breakfast. Four guys stood behind a folding table beneath the basketball hoops, dishing up oatmeal to kids crowded around them. Stick was one of the servers.

“No way.”

Maxie twirled in front of me. “I said they're giving out breakfast. You didn't believe me?”

“I believed you,” I said. “I don't believe that.” I pointed at Stick.

“What?”

“That's my brother.”

Maxie studied the four guys behind the serving table. “Which one?”

“On the left.”

“Steven's your brother?”

“You know him?”

Maxie stared at me like I had two heads. “Yeah, he's here about every day. That's my brother next to him, Raheem. Anyway, Steve's cool. Not as intense as some of the other guys from the Party.”

“What party?”

“The Black Panthers,” Maxie said. “They look out for us, you know? Hey, how come you don't know about them, your brother being a member and all?”

I shrugged. “He does his thing, I do mine.” I tried to brush it off, but the Black Panthers? If Stick had joined, why hadn't he told me about it?

“I thought that was just out in California,” I said. “It's here now?” I didn't completely know what “it” was, but I was sure going to find out now. I tried to recall what all Bucky and Stick had said about them the night Bucky'd brought the paper over.

“Not officially. But it will be.”

Maxie and I got in line for oatmeal. We pressed forward with the other kids until we got to the front of the line. Stick grabbed a bowl from the stack and looked up. He froze mid-scoop, a big glob of oatmeal stuck to his spoon, suspended over the dish.

“Don't stop on my account,” I said. “That stuff's not going to serve itself.” As if to prove me wrong, the scoop of cereal slid right off the spoon and dropped into the bowl
as I spoke. Maxie laughed, grabbing the bowl away from Stick.

“Nice,” she said, but I couldn't join her laughing. Stick had my attention. His closed expression told me I had walked in on something I wasn't supposed to see. He stood still, spoon in the air, looking as if he was deciding whether to get mad or to ignore me. Then he spooned me a bowl, and Maxie and I went to sit down.

Bucky Willis sat at the end of one of the long tables. “Let's go over there,” I said.

Maxie nodded. “Sure.”

Bucky bent over his bowl, spooning down oatmeal faster than I've ever seen anyone eat.

“Hey, Buck.”

He glanced up. “Sam, my man, what's cookin'?” Bucky grinned his famous grin.

“Just the usual,” I said, sitting down beside him. My back was to Stick, which was how I wanted it. This morning was supposed to be for Maxie and me. “This is Maxie.”

Bucky nodded. “I know Maxie. How's it goin', girl?”

“It's going.” Maxie sat across from us.

Bucky scraped up the last of his oatmeal and glanced at the food line. “They have a lot left when you were up there?”

“Looked like there was plenty to me,” I said.

“Perfect.” Bucky stood up. “Back in a few.”

He got back in line. “I haven't seen Bucky in a while,” I said. Stick used to bring him by the house all the time, but lately, Stick hadn't been home much himself.

“He's around,” Maxie said. “Working in Roy Dack's auto shop.”

“He's doing okay?”

Maxie stirred her cereal for a moment. “He gets by. They got the apartment back, at least.”

“Yeah.” Bucky's job paid the bills now, so he'd probably never come back to school.

“He takes good care of his mom and Shenelle, though.” Maxie nodded toward Bucky's little sister, running in the schoolyard with her friends, her red-ribboned pigtails bouncing behind her.

Bucky returned with a second heaping bowl of oatmeal. He waved his spoon at Maxie's and my bowls, which were still full.

“Y'all better eat up, 'cause in a minute, I'll be looking for thirds.” He grinned. You couldn't help but smile back. Even with all the things he had going on, Bucky was never anything but cheerful. No wonder everybody liked him.

Maxie's brother came up beside us. She made a face at him.

“Hi, Raheem,” Bucky said.

“Hey,” I said.

Raheem towered over the table, a bowl of oatmeal in his hand. He seemed about seven feet tall. “Hi, Buck,” he said, then turned to me. “Hey, man. Haven't seen you around here.”

“First time.”

“This is Steve's brother, Sam,” Maxie said.

“Good to meet you.” Raheem and I clasped hands. “Maxie doesn't bring a lot of guys around, you know.” He pointed a long, stern finger at me. “You treat her right.”

“What do you want, Heem?” Maxie snapped. She stabbed her spoon into her oatmeal and shot him a dirty look. Even that, on her, was cute.

Raheem grinned. “Wednesdays, six thirty,” he said, clamping a hand on my shoulder. “You ought to come down, check out the political education classes, my man. They talk up some serious stuff in there, you hear what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I'll check it out.” I wanted to ask him more about the Panthers, but I didn't want to look dumb in front of Maxie.

“See you around.” Raheem nodded to Maxie, then ambled off. Maxie kicked me under the table and winked. I kicked her back. We pressed the toes of our shoes against each other. It wasn't holding hands, but it was something.

 

Maxie met me on the steps after school. She led the way toward her house. I held back a smile as she turned down a street that took us a little out of the way. If I just reached out and took her hand, what would happen? Between her mittens and my gloves, we wouldn't really even be touching. It'd be like a practice. I flexed my fingers over and over, getting ready.

As we neared Bryant Street, where Maxie lived, I still hadn't made my move. I'd have to wait until tomorrow, because it was looking too late for today.

Music blared from a radio perched atop a phone booth down the block, where a group of men leaned against cars parked in front of the barbershop. Bucky came hurrying down the street past them. He waved and crossed toward us. “Hey, Sam. Maxie.”

“Hey, Bucky. You finally got a free afternoon?” Maxie said.

“No, girl, I'm on the clock right now. Just dropping off some parts to a guy up the block.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. His hands were smudged with dirt and grease.

“I'm glad I ran into you, Sam,” he went on. “Do me a favor, will ya? Tell Steve to stop by the shop tomorrow. We gotta talk. It's real important. I tried to catch him earlier, but I missed my shot.”

“Yeah, no problem, Bucky. I'll tell him.”

“Thanks, man, I gotta go. Get back to work 'fore they dock me.” Bucky grinned and slapped my shoulder. “Catch ya later.” He jogged off down the sidewalk, then slowed to wave at three guys coming out of the mini grocery across the street carrying bottles of soda. One of them called out to him, and Bucky turned partway around, still jogging.

“You coming tonight, man?”

“Can't. Working,” Bucky called back. He waved again as he dashed toward the corner.

Two policemen stepped around the corner, right in front of Bucky. I jerked my head toward them. Maxie gasped.

Bucky was looking back over his shoulder, but still running forward. The two officers ambled around the corner, probably making their regular rounds through the neighborhood. Bucky rammed into the police officers, barreled right smack between them.

Bucky turned around, flustered. “Excuse me, Officers. I didn't see you.” He started to move on, but one of them held up his hand.

“Not so fast, buster. What are you running from?”

“Nothing. I'm going to work.” Bucky smiled.

“Put your teeth back in your head, boy, 'fore I knock 'em out,” the stockier cop said. His stomach jiggled over his gun belt as he and his partner laughed.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I'm on my way back to my job.” Again he tried to move away from them. This time, the taller cop drew his nightstick and laid it across Bucky's chest.

“Hold on just a minute, pal. We'll see about that. Where do you work?”

“What do you want to know that for? I didn't do nothing.”

The tall cop looked Bucky over. “Do nothing sounds about right. Now, you want to tell us about this job of yours?”

Bucky balled his hands into fists, but nodded politely. “I fix cars.”

“What's your name?”

Bucky stood without speaking. My heart pounded. He couldn't tell them his name. The stocky cop drew his nightstick and jammed the tip into Bucky's stomach. “I'm not going to ask again.”

Bucky straightened up and shook his head slightly. The officer slammed the baton into Bucky's stomach again. Bucky doubled over from the force of the blow, pressing his arms against his stomach. The hit echoed in my gut—along with the horrible knowledge that everything was about to get worse.

The second cop's baton caught Bucky on the chin and
jerked him back up. Everyone on the street turned to look. The cops took turns striking Bucky with their nightsticks, fists, and feet. The radio in the background seemed to sing louder, the cheerful pop tune warring with the sick
thwack
of baton blows against skin.

The tall cop bent close to Bucky, his square nose practically touching Bucky's cheek, and said something. Bucky reacted sharply, jerking backward, his fists stretched out in front of him. The cop laughed and hammered Bucky's arms with his baton.

The music cut suddenly and the silence suffocated the street. The air grew thick, hard to breathe without choking. Only the hum of cars on nearby streets disturbed the still air. The stocky cop lifted the radio from his belt and spoke into it.

Maxie moved closer to me. This couldn't be happening right in front of us, especially not to Bucky. It went on forever. Finally the tall cop brought his nightstick down hard against Bucky's temple. The blow connected, making a loud
crack
. Maxie turned her face into my shoulder. I slid my arm over Maxie's back, hugging her closer.

Bucky fell to the ground. His face pointed toward us, bruised cheeks and split lip. The side of his head was bleeding. His eyes were open, searching. His gaze landed on me, pleading for it to stop. I longed for Stick or even
Father. They could do something, anything, to make it stop. Stick might run over, lending his fists to Bucky's defense. Father would know the right words, what to say that would help.

But not me.

I met Bucky's gaze and he knew. He saw me standing there, saw that I wasn't coming to his rescue, that he had been betrayed. I held his gaze, which was all I could manage to do. I read each moment, each thought that passed through him—when his mind was clouded with pain, when he found the strength to emit a silent plea for mercy. I knew the moment he gave up hoping. He could have looked away, could have shown anger at me for doing nothing. He didn't. He just looked at me and, God bless Bucky, he smiled.

Seeing that gentle smile, beneath all the blood and the sound of the beating, hit me hardest. Bucky closed his eyes. He didn't move at all, but they poked him with their nightsticks and kicked him a few more times.

Sirens wailed in the background, closing in with every whistle. Two squad cars fishtailed around the corner. The red lights flashed against the storefront windows.

The cops finally stopped kicking Bucky, cuffed him, and hauled him into the back of one of the police cars. Then they drove off.

People on the street began going about their business
again. The radio blasted, covering the silence of disbelief, of resignation. Maxie and I stood still as the car pulled away. The second cop car cruised slowly down the street, lights flashing. We averted our eyes, pretending not to notice.

“He never did anything to anyone,” Maxie whispered as the car passed us.

“I know.” I wrapped her mittened fingers in mine and she looked up at me. This wasn't how I'd wanted to hold her hand for the first time.

“What are we going to do?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

 

I hurried home after Maxie went into her building. I made sure to check before I rounded any corners, and turned real wide along the sidewalks. I slipped inside my house and breathed deeply, drawing the warm, peppery aroma of Mama's chicken casserole into my lungs.

“How was your day?” Mama asked as I hung up my coat by the door and kicked off my shoes. She was sitting in the brown armchair beside the front windows, stitching buttons onto one of Father's shirts.