Holding Pattern

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Cosmo grinned. No, ma’am.

  Well then.

  Cosmo picked up his fork and started in on his dinner.

  Hatch mumbled grace—God good. God great. Let us thank him for food and men—and lifted his fork. The plates and cups and utensils were white from constant scrubbing. He studied his distorted reflection.

  Poor man. To spend all those years in jail. And for nothing. Mamma sipped steaming liquid. Hatch admired the rhythm of her throat. Dad opened his mouth to admit corn bread. Cosmo did not look up from his plate. A splash of light from the small chandelier above the dinner table gave his hair an even greasier appearance. Mamma lowered her cup to the saucer. An innocent man. But God will tell.

  Cosmo fumbled his fork.

  God will tell.

  Cosmo raised his head and stared fixedly, straight past Dad’s shoulder and through the window.

  Mamma took a cigarette—smoking was her only vice—from her pack on the table. Lit up, drew long and deep, blew out a stream of smoke. Such was her sustenance, for she put their hunger before her own, waited for her men to eat before she forked her fill. She wanted her men healthy and strong, and daily prepared each a tall cold glass of sulfur and water, filmed over with cod-liver oil, and watched and waited until each drained it in her monitoring presence. Now he’s back with his family.

  Cosmo stared straight ahead—out the window? at a precise location in the black distance?

  Mamma drew on the cigarette, blew the smoke through her nose like a bull. Hatch considered applauding the miracle but decided against it. She set the cigarette on the lip of her saucer. And they gave him money. Millions of dollars. But what he had to endure! His eye poked out! Wit a red-hot poker!

  Cosmo sat, transfixed.

  Mamma took a sip of coffee—what Hatch had been waiting for, that rhythm; he had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming in delight—and lowered her cup to the saucer. But see, God will tell. They been tryin to put that company back to right. But they never will. Never will. Mamma shook her head in righteous satisfaction.

  Now, that’s my idea of justice, Cosmo said.

  Mamma’s mouth snapped shut. In one fluid motion, she surged forward and landed a sonorous blow against Cosmo’s jaw.

  Hatch felt a curious stillness in the room, some invisible tent attached to the ceiling and overhanging the table. A bean dropped from Dad’s raised stationary fork.

  Thank you, Cosmo said. He scooted his chair back, rose quickly, and quit the table, creases snapping.

  Something rolled coldly down Hatch’s cheek. He struggled to see. Mamma cut her eyes toward him. You want some? she said, still perched over the table.

  No, ma’am. He wiped his eyes, darted a glance, swung his legs back and forth.

  Mamma sat down. In counterpoint, Dad sprang up so quickly that he almost fell to the floor—as if the chair had been snatched out from under him. His sharp footsteps clipped down the hall. Mamma lit another cigarette and puffed slowly and deeply in another world, behind thin bars of smoke.

  Shades drawn to prevent the moon from surveying him through the window. Cosmo lay flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, studying the heavens through the telescope of his dick.

  V

  Yo brother retarded.

  Don’t talk bout my family.

  Yo brother—

  My final warning.

  And he—

  Hatch punches the bastard in the mouth.

  A crew of roughnecks on the corner spots Cosmo, his fedora bobbing on his head like a storm-tossed ship. What up, player. They laugh, throwing their heads back.

  Go ask yo mamma! Hatch shouts. Stank ho.

  Cosmo looks at him hard. Jus mind yo own business.

  You gon let them talk bout you?

  Cosmo slaps him upside the head.

  See the way that gump slap shorty?

  Yeah. Picking on the lil guy.

  We should kick his ass.

  Give him a fo-real ass whupping.

  Hatch rubs his pain-blotted head.

  Come on, Cosmo says.

  Skinny motherfucker.

  Stick in the mud.

  Retard.

  Gump.

  VI

  Hatch sucker punches Dad in his hard flat middle and pleads for a cupla bucks. Dad watches Hatch with large quizzical eyes. What? he says. A cupla bucks? Here. Dad hops once, twice, kicking his heels into the middle of his back. Grins. He tells Hatch to rub his bald peanut-colored head for good luck. Lets Hatch tug his beard. Then he digs deep inside his pockets—he sounds them with silver—and gives Hatch three dollars. Stiff new bills, brightly inked. Vibrant, Dad’s dress shirt glows like a movie screen. (Mamma keeps his ironed tops in the refrigerator so they’ll remain soft and wrinkle free.) He heads for the door, his trusty Leica hanging from a neck strap.

  Sargent, Mamma says, leave that camera here. Some thug mistake you for a tourist.

  I can’t. You know it’s the eye of fortune.

  Well, at least put it in the case.

  Dad complies, then folds his red silk handkerchief into a compact square and polishes the brass door knocker. Joyous in alligator shoes, stepping carefully down the street on tippytoes—the inflated balls of his feet—taking small steps as if avoiding shit-smeared concrete.

  The sun kisses the street into light and color. Skyscrapers glazed in bronze, copper, and gold. Hard haze on the brick buildings, cooking all the folks inside. Ants fry in the dirt. Roaches explode like tiny grenades. Nothing settles or stays untouched.

  Dad cannot bear a single finger of warmth. Year-round keeps on his person a portable battery-operated fan that buzzes like a miniature bomb. An air conditioner cools every room in the house, humming at all hours, around the clock, a high cold winter voice.

  One telling day, heat rips out the power lines. Agitation at heart, Dad seals himself inside his Town Car, parked at the curb in front of the house. Hatch watches him from a high window in the two-car garage where Cosmo lives and studies and works.

  Ain’t you gon come?

  Nawl. Cosmo tinkers with an engine. You go head.

  What’s wrong? Is you chicken?

  Nawl, I ain’t chicken.

  Then let’s go.

  I’m fine right here. Got work to do. Plenty work.

  Chicken.

  Cosmo’s hands move over the engine.

  Chicken.

  Punk, who you calling chicken?

  You. Chicken.

  Cosmo looks at Hatch, fire in his eyes.

  Hatch lowers his face. Backs off. Best not to push his luck. He runs, legs pumping, to the Town Car and finds Mamma standing on the driver’s side, leaning over, face level with the window, her long heavy breasts hanging like rubber bands, a prim dress billowing about her sculpted calves, her high long heels sharp tools jackhammering the concrete floor, her rich behind raised for all the world to see. Hatch bites his tongue in knowledge. Eye to keyhole, he sees Dad bang her at night—Kiss me, my proud beauty—Dad’s duty, bed swinging from side to side like a hammock.

  Sargent.

  When will the power be on? Dad says, neck stiff, veins bulging like electrical cables. He stares straight ahead through the windshield. The car’s roof glazed in afternoon sun. The air conditioner wheezing against the glass.

  I just called the electric company, Mamma says. It’ll be at least a few hours.

  Well, I’ll just stay in here until they get it back on.

  Sargent, don’t act a fool. I—

  I’ll stay out here. Rolling his eyes a little to raise the volume of his voice.

  Bright sun forces Hatch to blink. Up and down the street, trees shake in a hot breeze, light dripping, sweatlike, from their leaves.

  Then I’ll sit out here with you.

  No. Sun on Dad’s face, a small glowing window.

  Sargent, let me keep you company.

  No.

  Don’t act a fool.

  Dad doesn’t speak or move, eyes staring straigh
t ahead. A feeling silence.

  Well, can I get you anything? A nice cold glass of aloe vera juice?

  The sun hits Dad’s bald head with a dull thud. His shaped goatee glows like vanilla ice cream. No.

  Why don’t you drive around some, Hatch says.

  Mamma looks at him. Go in the house. Hatch doesn’t move. Boy, don’t make me use my belt. Hatch starts his legs. Mamma turns back to Dad, whose blank face gleams. Sargent.

  He says nothing. Deaf. Oblivious.

  Open the door.

  Narrows his eyes and clenches his fists on the stationary steering wheel.

  VII

  Cosmo leans around the corner, cautious. He looks back and takes Hatch’s hand. Come on. They move swiftly to the bathroom. Cosmo leans outside the door, takes another look around, face bunched as if a firecracker had just exploded near his ears. He straightens up, tears off a square of toilet paper, crumples it into a ball, and pushes it into Hatch’s hand. Here. He gets himself some. He carefully places the balled-up toilet paper into his mouth, then chews like an old man. Go on. Hatch pops the white ball into his mouth. Cosmo tears another sheet from the roll.

  Mamma touches Cosmo’s hair, slick wonder. Grease glistens on her fingertips. She rubs them together like money. You think you Mr. Cool in that bebop suit. She looks Cosmo up and down. He keeps his head bowed, thumb and forefinger shaping the brim of his fedora. Look like a pimp.

  I ain’t no pimp.

  What you say?

  Nothing.

  Wait till your father hear bout this.

  Cosmo stands there, head bowed.

  You know I’m gon tell him.

  If you must.

  Mamma scrunches up her face. Let me advise you. Detest who you are. Build a better self.

  VIII

  Six o’clock. The alarm trumpets. Hatch lies very still in his bed until he hears Cosmo’s door shut. He throws back his quilts, leaps up, opens his own door, and tiptoes down the hall. Bends over slow and careful to avoid knocking his forehead against the doorknob. Peers, squint-eyed, through the circle of the keyhole. Cosmo throws his clothes into a bundle, onto the floor, picks up a book, and slides into bed, genitals swinging. Hatch had hoped for something more.

  After a while, Cosmo puts the book aside, then slips beneath the covers. Squirms on his belly, reptilelike, to get comfortable. Imprisoned in shoe boxes under the bed, rats squeak like heels on a basketball court.

  His room is sorely neglected. The garage is his domain, where he spends most of the night on a queen-sized mattress on a patch of floor clean of oil stains and gasoline. Space arranged in an order he works hard to maintain. Something about the colors and their careful placement suggests motion. Dozens of stacks of aviation books and technical magazines. Engines in various stages of repair. Mechanical refuse from the neighbors’ trash and yards. On the regular he invites Hatch into his world, his secrets. Kodaks of a woman with two assholes. A six-tittied dwarf. A man with a big fat titty where his dick should be. And other wonders: A glow-in-the-dark penis. A crystal vagina. Aluminum condoms. Specimens in fluid-filled mason jars. He offers these revelations with a straight face, hot sunshine pouring through the high single window. Hatch aims through the glass and shoots down flying saucers with his water gun.

  Want to hear something? Cosmo asks.

  What?

  This one time, I ate a whole bar of scented soap. For the heck of it.

  What happened?

  For a whole week, my turds come out white and smellin like expensive perfume.

  Seven o’clock. Hatch rushes to his door, parts it a little. Cosmo approaches from down the hall, underclothing tucked against his side, suit trailing behind his shoulder, old-man shoes untied, genitals swinging.

  Fully dressed an hour later. Breakfast on the table. He eats in one minute flat.

  Gon choke to death one day, Mamma says. Eatin like somebody crazy.

  Yes’m. He kisses her cheek. Leather satchel in hand, clean dungarees folded over his arm, he rushes out to greet the new day. Walks bent forward, like somebody pushing through slanting snow.

  If you gon be a pilot, how come you tinkering with that lil-bitty engine?

  Cosmo cracked his knuckles, popping one at a time. Look, I ain’t gon be no pilot. That’s a lawn-mower engine. And, those there, Volkswagen. I’m studying power-plant mechanics. I overhaul air-cooled engines. He went on, sounding like one of his books.

  Hatch kept his distance. Drew his water pistol and considered firing.

  Cosmo looked him in the face, grinning at the threat, liquid danger. Opened his arms and gestured, expansively, his smile wide. These are machines for living.

  Ain’t you gon be a pilot?

  I never said that.

  What did you say?

  Cosmo frowned into the bowl of his hat. I’m gon be a mechanic, a power-plant mechanic. See, they got this program at school that’ll low me to get both my power-plant license and my body license.

  You got five schools offering you scholarships, Mamma said.

  Cosmo snapped the brim of his hat.

  Dad looked steadily at him, pulling his silver-streaked goatee with long strokes of his fist.

  I like to fix things.

  Where you go last night?

  Ma’am?

  Are you deaf now too? Where did you go last night?

  Nowhere.

  Nowhere?

  Drivin.

  Drivin where?

  Just drivin. Nowhere in particular.

  Nowhere in particular smelling like cigarette smoke?

  Cosmo keeps his eyes lowered, fedora in hand.

  I don’t know what path you’re on, but I’ll tell you this: don’t swap horses in the middle of the stream.

  The room shines with the shimmering of the street. Cosmo stands rigid, lean face in shadow, following with a blank look his pacing father. Though he maintains an appetite, eats his meals in greedy helpings, he has a polelike appearance, skinny arms, narrow shoulders, and no hips or buttocks. And that hungry-ass face. The only thing big on him is his hands. He looks like some mechanical figure from one of his aviation books.

  I don’t understand why the boy so skinny. Look like somebody over in Africa.

  Dad quickens his pace. Hatch’s skin grows warm with fear and excitement. Dad halts and looks Cosmo straight in the face. They are watching each other, separate nightscapes of parked vehicles and moving traffic flowing across each face.

  Cosmo.

  Yes, sir.

  Either shit or get off the pot.

  IX

  You know where babies come from? Cosmo’s feet make no sound on the garage floor.

  Uh-huh.

  Where?

  Out they navel.

  True. And don’t let nobody tell you different.

  It was a lot like sighting through a hole made by your thumb and forefinger, the metal door lock cold against your brow:

  Dad lay facedown on the bed, arms around his pillow. The blankets heaved powerfully. Soft morning light painted on the shaded window. His scalp glowed with the strength of the approaching day. Mamma put her cheek on his shoulder.

  I’m an angel, she said. I could dance on the head of a pin.

  Hatch crawls into the bedroom and hides at the back of the closet with the door slightly ajar. A wedge of vision. Mamma rushes out of the bathroom, fully dressed. Halts before the full-length mirror, body shaking with the shock of the sudden stop. Screws her tam down well over her forehead, checks her bangs. Straightens out the things in her purse, lifts coat from the bed. Exits, buttocks seesawing.

  Sargent, how come you ain’t dressed for church?

  I don’t think I can make it today.

  Sargent.

  I am perfectly serious. Sincere. My joints are stiff. He demonstrates.

  Sargent, please stop actin a fool. We gon be late. Don’t spoil my one day of the week.

  You don’t understand. My joints are stiff. From the cold.

  Mamma stands there
with something flickering hot behind her eyes. She spins on her heels and quits the house, door slamming behind.

  The batter hits a pop fly into center field. The camera tracks another player as he moves into position, glove at the ready.

  I hope he misses it, Hatch says.

  Why?

  They always catch it. Why can’t they miss sometime?

  Cosmo rises from his seat next to Hatch, his audience his rundown collection of engines. In his brother, Hatch sees a prophecy of his physical-self-to-be. Mamma has dressed them like twins for church. Tall skinny Cosmo and short plump Hatch, his ventriloquist dummy.

  Rest assured, Cosmo says. He flicks off the television, baseball in permanent flight. Anything you think of has happened.

  What?

  Anything you imagine in your brain has happened, sometime, somewhere.

  Anything?

  Yes.

  Really?

  Yes.

  A woman of biblical proportions, Sistah Turner turns her back to the class and begins to chalk a lesson on the blackboard. Cosmo, in a low voice: Look at that fine ho! Hatch and fellow students double over in their seats with laughter. Sistah Turner spins. Scans the class. Cosmo casts a few mean looks to silence would-be traitors.

  Sistah Turner summons the students to her desk for punishment, one by one. Sign your name on her licking stick, then assume the position. Discipline, Sistah Turner says. Say it. Hatch says it. Sistah Turner’s hard paddle works on his soft butt. Later, when he arrives home, he rushes to the john, shuts and locks the door, slips down his draws, and cranes his neck, trying to see if his name is emblazoned on his behind.

  Much weeping and wailing. Hatch, bottom tender, watches Cosmo angrily, contemplates betrayal. Cosmo sits with his eyes firmly shut, tightening in and out of dreams.

  After class, Mamma takes her sons into a dark corner and tests for recalcitrance, extending one thin knuckle before each boy’s forehead and letting it hover there, humming, seeking the necessary evidence in their eyes. She raps the guilty party with the knuckle, force and number of raps fitting the crime.