The Rock and the River (9 page)

I
SAT AT THE DINING TABLE STARING AT MY MATH
homework, but it wasn't coming together like usual. I couldn't concentrate. I was supposed to meet Maxie in an hour for the Wednesday night class. I was on the last problem, but I kept messing it up. I'd gotten
X
easy enough, but I couldn't figure out what
Y
was supposed to be. I scribbled out the numbers and started again.

“Why what, baby?”

I jumped about a mile. Mama stood frowning over me, a steaming mug in her hand.

“What?”

“You just said, ‘I don't know why.'”

“I'm talking to myself. Algebra.”

“Hmm.” She held the cup under her nose and sniffed the steam.

“Is that cocoa?”

She shook her head, extending the cup toward me. “Chamomile.”

I wrinkled my nose, and Mama laughed. “Your cocoa's on the counter,” she said. She sat down across from me, gathering the edges of her housecoat in her lap.

I put down my pencil and rubbed the sides of my face. “You put in an extra sugar cube?”

Mama shot me a look. “I know how my boys like their cocoa.” She dropped her eyes and wrapped both hands around her mug. Her thumbs tripped over each other, running up and down along the handle.

I went into the kitchen. My cocoa mug sat steaming on the counter, next to Stick's empty one. The pan of hot milk still rested on the stove burner, just enough there for a second mug. I poured it out in the sink and put Stick's mug back in the cupboard. I lifted my mug and stirred the spoon.

Mama was watching me through the door as I returned to the table. “How is your brother doing?” she said, her voice quieter than usual. Stick had been gone three days, but they hadn't yet talked to me about what happened.

“I don't know. He's probably fine.”

“Where is he staying?”

I shrugged. Mama hunched forward and her frown deepened. “He hasn't been going to school.”

I shrugged again. She would know better than me. “We don't see each other at school.” Except for sometimes at the breakfast, and I wasn't about to tell Mama that. Tomorrow morning, she'd be waiting down there, ready to drag Stick home by the ear.

“He'll come back,” I said.

Mama shook her head. “He's just like his father.”

“He's nothing like Father,” I said.

Mama lifted her mug. “No, baby, they're the same. Exactly the same. Stubborn. Focused.” She sipped her tea. “Not a bone of compromise in either of them.”

True enough. “Where is Father, anyway?” I hadn't seen him at all since I'd come home from school. Not that I was complaining. If he was here, he'd be breathing down my neck until I finished my homework.

“He's probably out looking for your brother.”

I glanced up.

Mama's mouth twitched over the rim of her mug. “I told you, stubborn.”

The wall clock read 6:15. Class started in fifteen minutes. “Mama, do you mind if I go out for a little while?”

“It's after dinner, Sam.”

“My homework's done.” I wrote
Y
=
42
under my scribbled out equation. Who cared if it was the wrong answer?

“Just where do you plan to go at this hour?”

“I'm supposed to meet up with Maxie.”

Mama's fingers hugged her teacup. She took a slow sip. “You know what your Father would say.”

“I know.” I held my breath.

“Why do you think I'll say something different?” She spoke in her sweetest voice, but it wasn't a question.

“Please, Mama.”

“Sam, you know the rules of this house.” The twinge of sadness in her voice suddenly seemed to be about more than Stick being gone, but I wasn't sure what else it meant.

There was no point in arguing it further. Mama had her own kind of stubbornness. I scooped up my homework and headed to my room. I grumbled to myself as I left the table. I was going to stand Maxie up and miss my first political education class, to boot. A big part of me was relieved. Mama had given me a perfect excuse not to go. But there was something nagging deep inside of me that grew stronger by the moment. I couldn't explain it or define it, but there were things I needed to understand. A part of me that would no longer sit still and do as I was told.

By the time I reached my room, I had a plan.

I dropped my books on my bed, took my spare jacket from the closet, and went to the window. I raised the sash and stuck my leg out, then paused to listen for Mama.

The evening air cooled my hot face as I climbed the rest
of the way outside. I stood in the grass, my hands on the windowsill, thrilling in the rush of freedom. Had Stick felt this way every day? No, he probably got used to it a long time ago. I listened into the house for one more minute, then I hurried out across the lawn.

 

I unbuttoned my coat right away as I walked into the meeting. People packed the tiny room, and the air felt as thick as the crowd. Stick stood near the front. I wormed my way through rows of metal folding chairs, my eyes on his back. As I came up beside him, people shifted, knocking me into Stick. He turned his head and his face took on a mix of expressions, real annoyed like when we were little and I tried to tag along with him and his friends, but also glad to see me, I could tell. I was glad to see him, too.

Stick slammed his shoulder back into mine. “What are you doing here?”

I pushed him again. “What does it look like?” Then I added, “Where have you been?”

“Around.” We were shoving each other, for no real reason, but it felt right. A kid standing by Stick shot us a dirty look, so we stopped. I checked Stick over. Three days away from home, and he seemed none the worse for wear. He actually looked pretty smooth and official, dressed up in
his black leather jacket, combat boots, and beret.

Stick shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, how are…things?” He stared at his feet and wouldn't look at me.

I hesitated. “Strange,” I said. That was the truth.

“Yeah?”

“Quiet.” Uncomfortable. Lonely.

“Mama, she's all right?”

I took a deep breath. Should I tell him she cries every night? His eyes said he didn't want to know the real story.

“Mama's fine.” My smile felt stiff. “Misses you.”

Stick tucked his hands under his arms. “Yeah, I guess. Father?”

“He's fine.” I paused. He waited. “We don't talk about it.”

Stick nodded. “I figured that.” He reached up and adjusted his beret. I felt heavy, stuffed to bursting with all the things we weren't saying. All the thoughts I couldn't bring aloud, like how mixed up the world had become and why couldn't he be there to help me figure it out. Instead, we just stood there, pretty awkwardly for two guys who'd spent our whole lives sharing a bedroom. I hadn't even put a block on the tower since Stick left. I wanted to tell him that, but I couldn't. Our room might be the same as it had always been, but we weren't.

“Hey, can we get started?” A tall, thin guy at the front
of the room waved his hands, motioning people to sit down. He looked a few years older than Stick, maybe twenty-one or so. “Find a seat, any seat, and sit yourself in it,” he said, a hint of musical rhythm to his speech. His lips tipped up in a smile that made it seem he was talking just to me.

“Who's that?” I whispered.

“Leroy Jackson,” Stick said. “He's talking tonight. Go on and sit with your girl before she loses your seat.”

Maxie motioned to me from across the room, her hand on the empty seat beside her. She was arguing with another girl over the chair. “See you,” I said, heading toward her. She looked relieved to see me approaching.

“Hey, that's my seat,” I said to the girl trying to pry Maxie's fingers from the metal. She shot me some kind of ghetto death stare, but backed off.

“About time,” Maxie said as I fell into the seat. “What were you doing?”

“Sorry. I had to talk to him for a minute.” I cupped her hand in both of mine, drawing comfort from the warm softness of her fingers between mine.

“Oh, please. Talk to your brother when you get home. Talk to me now.” She flashed her charming smile. I drew her arm across my stomach, tucking her elbow inside mine. She came close willingly, and it felt nice. She was with me, even if no one else was.

Maxie tipped her head, a question in her eyes. I hadn't told her about Stick walking out. I kept thinking he'd come home. Seeing him here, I wasn't sure anymore. “Maxie, I have to tell you—”

“Okay, everybody, welcome to this week's political education class,” Leroy Jackson said. “I see a lot of new faces out there tonight. It's great that you all came down. Looks like my boys are doing a good job spreading the word.”

Stick and some other bereted guys stood against the wall to my right. Leroy perched himself on the edge of a desk at the front of the room. Behind him, a hand-lettered poster read
ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE
! in bold black print.

“Tonight, we're going to talk about some of the things that are going on right now and what we can do as a community to make a difference. We're going to talk about the Black Panther Party and how you all can help my brothers here”—Leroy pointed to Stick and the others—“make Chicago a better city for black folks. It's time for a change, brothers and sisters.” The crowd murmured. “We've been where we're at for too long. There's a time to sit still and a time to stand up. That time is now.” The audience's rustling grew louder.

“Hold it down now, hold it down.” Leroy patted his hands in the air to calm the class. “Now, white folks teach their children to be proud of their history and claim their
future. The same white folks teach black children to be ashamed of their past, and that they have no future. The result is, the black man is trapped in the ghetto and his black children live in fear.”

Leroy jumped off the desk and started pacing along the front of the room. “It's a hundred years since slavery and we ain't got nothing to show for it. If we wait for the government leaders to change their minds and their laws, we'll be waiting another hundred years. We don't need anyone's permission to be free.”

He meant like the endless hours Father spent on making phone calls to lawyers and congressmen and mayors, all of them white.

“In order to change our future, we have to transform the present. You all know we are fighting a war. I'm not talking about the war in Vietnam, though that is certainly on all of our minds. I'm talking about the ways we fight right here on the streets in Chicago!”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. People shifted in seats.

“I'm talking about the cops who beat down brothers for no reason except that they are black…”

The image of Bucky's face pressed against the sidewalk flashed in front of me. Maxie leaned her shoulder against me. Her fingers snaked between mine.

“I'm talking about the businesses that will not hire black workers, or give them equal pay. I'm talking about the ghettos that are crowded with poor black families. I'm talking about the jails that are full of black men…”

Around the room people nodded and clapped. Voices rose up.

“The time to change this country is now!” Leroy's words echoed over the restless stirring.

“That's right!” someone yelled. Everyone turned around to look at the guy who had shouted. He shrugged and sat down, looking a little embarrassed. A few people laughed. Some started clapping.

Leroy looked to the right and motioned to a man standing against the wall. He nodded, and the man stood up to attention. Leroy stuck out his hand. The man pulled a large black rifle from behind a chair and tossed it to Leroy. The
clap
of his hand against the barrel echoed in the air. The room fell dead silent.

“The revolution is not here,” Leroy said, holding the gun aloft. “It's here.” He tapped his temple with his free hand.

I got chills. People leaned forward, eyes fixed on Leroy.

“We will ensure our freedom by any means necessary, but before we can go here”—he shook the gun—“that
freedom has to live here”—he pointed to his head—“and here”—he pointed to his chest.

Leroy walked the gun back over to the wall. My heart beat fast. Maxie's eyes looked as wide as mine felt. Leroy talked about the system of government, rules and law. He spoke of rights and privilege, the division between rich and poor. Father also talked about these things, but hearing it now, it all seemed brand new. And not just new, but possible. Leroy explained the Panthers' ten-point plan to achieve justice, and handed out a list of books we should read.

Then, Leroy stopped speaking. We all waited. He looked over the faces in the crowd, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. He glanced at the row of bereted guys standing at the side. One of them, Lester Burns, nodded slightly.

Leroy cleared his throat. “Some of you have come to me, concerned about the things that went down in Oakland a few days ago.”

I looked at Maxie. I didn't know what he meant. She shrugged.

“For those of you who don't know,” Leroy went on, “I'm talking about the murder of your brother and mine, Bobby Hutton, during a raid by the Oakland Police on the Black Panthers' Oakland headquarters.” He paused as the crowd murmured surprise and confusion.

“Seventeen years old. Unarmed. Hit with tear gas. Shot twelve times after surrendering to police.”

The whole room burst into a mess of voices. Leroy let it go. When the crowd settled, he spoke again.

“Bobby may be the first Panther to die in this fight, but he's not the first casualty of the race war. Just the latest. And he won't be the last to give his life for the cause of freedom.

“The police will lie, say he shot first, and the world will look the other way. This is what we're up against. This can't go on.” Leroy slid his palms against each other as he looked around the room. “That's it for tonight. Sign-ups are at the left tables.”