The Rock and the River Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    â€œCome in here and rinse these greens,” Mama had called the instant I came in the door. “We’re having company tonight.”
    â€œWhat company?” I grumbled, entering the kitchen. “Do we have to?”
    â€œDr. King, for one,” she said, then proceeded to list a few other friends of Father’s.
    â€œReally?” 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?”
    â€œMartin’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?”
    â€œYour pie’s the best, Mama.”
    â€œThat’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. Takecare. 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.
    â€œHello, boys.”
    â€œShhh!” 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.
    â€œWhat 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.