Holding Pattern

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Her rearview mirror drummed with the sight. Witness, her eyes recorded, vision hurrying like venom through her body. She gunned the engine with a hoarse roar, turned at the corner, turned again, made several more turns, until she was back where she had started. Car, boomerang. She curved to the curb. Engine running, she sat, quiet, behind the wheel. Her head was numb. Lost him. So now he’s following me? Okay, I got something for him. Wait and see. He’ll think twice about messin wit me.

  Boy, what’s wrong wit you? Roused from sleep, in her yellow housecoat with white flowers, Mamma watched Hatch from her reclined position on the couch, the cords in her neck tense, as if straining to contain air bound blood. Her red-house-shoed feet crossed. Ashy ankles like gray fish eyes. Lips puckered from toothless gums. She’d lost her teeth as a child in the Sippi South, when a reckless car struck her on a lonely dirt road. Specialists fashioned her a new set, which she had a hard time keeping track of. Once she’d left them on a friend’s dashboard and dispatched an embarrassed Sheila to retrieve them. Speak up. She switched her gaze to Sheila for a moment, the eyes like stones, scraping Sheila’s skin.

  Head down, Hatch cried without wiping his eyes, tears running. A swelling reddened his brow, a small red knob. He attempted to speak between sobs, bubbled words and saliva.

  Boy, speak up.

  Chitlin Sandwich bit me wit a sock.

  What?

  Chitlin Sandwich hit me wit a rock.

  Mamma continued to look at him, letting the wet revelation soak in. Her eyes slowly found Sheila’s face. She had been put in charge of Hatch. They shared a two-bedroom apartment—she and Mamma, one bedroom; Hatch the other—on the top floor of a three-story brick courtyard building, broad high picture window overlooking the Stonewall Projects, a single playground the center of three seven-story steel high-rises that bloomed into city sky. Flecks of waste. Free-floating rage. It was Mamma’s desire to spirit out of the neighborhood first chance.

  Mamma rose from the couch, shuffled into the kitchen, house shoes slapping the bare floor, and returned with two potsherds. She took Hatch’s hand and raised it, palm upward, beggar-fashion. Placed the potsherds inside. Don’t let the serpent of hatred rise in yo heart, she said, but I want you to go back out there and bust that Chitlin Sandwich side his head.

  No, ma’am. Hatch was eight, and tall for his age—threatening, even—but he was clumsy (Mamma forbade him to handle delicate objects) and gentle, and would wrap crooked Band-Aids around the broken wings of dragonflies. He would thank Mamma when she whupped him—her blows and words synchronized, his body jerking to avoid the rhythmic belt—and promise to do better.

  You back-talkin me?

  No, ma’am.

  Then get out there and do what I told you to do.

  I would prefer not to.

  What? Get! She shoved him, stumbling, out the door. Stood looking at Sheila. What are you standing there for? Go wit him.

  It was a day of filtered sunshine, half-cloud, half-sun. Chitlin Sandwich waited before the gray mass of the building. Chitlin Sandwich, waiting. Dark, red, sparkling, the child of unmothering and unfathering deeps. Anyone even remotely connected with the Abraham Lincoln Elementary School knew that his mamma dressed him from the Goodwill. She ran the streets in glossy hip huggers, a new man on her arm every week, and she aided and supported two grown brothers, Snake and Lake, criminals in hiding, pursued. She cooked every Sunday and used the leftovers for the remainder of the week. Her specialty was the chitlin sandwich: chitlins on white bread with hot sauce, onions, lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes. Chitlin rose a full three inches over the tallest kid in the neighborhood. (Perhaps the sandwiches fed his strange growth and behavior.) Feared, he was also called upon, since he instinctively understood electronics. He could repair a toaster and a computer, a television and a cellular phone, with equal ease. Word had it he never used tools.

  Chitlin walked, the hinged arms and legs of a cardboard Halloween skeleton. Hatch closed his eyes and whirled both potsherds. One caught Chitlin—he made no attempt to defend himself—squarely behind the earlobe. Hatch opened his eyes to red sight. He ran back into the courtyard. Halted beside Sheila. She knew what he was thinking: stand his ground or answer to Mamma.

  Chitlin crossed the street for Stonewall, blood trickling between fingers stopping his wound. He did not hurry. Steady and calm. Sheila watched from the courtyard, drawn by the clean power of curiosity. She had never seen such stoicism and determination in a child. She caught one last glimpse of him before Stonewall swallowed him.

  Did you see that? she said.

  See what?

  Did you see that?

  He bleedin. He gon beat me up.

  You didn’t see it? As her brother’s fear weighed on her, Chitlin Sandwich reappeared, walking with swift firm steps, dragging with one hand some object that scraped the concrete behind him like a fallen muffler. She held up one hand to block the sun so that she could see better, but there was no light to block. Sight improved as he came closer. She felt a violent knocking in her stomach, neither fear nor anger. Comic disbelief.

  That Chitlin Sandwich got a sword.

  What?

  Look.

  The sword was better than three feet long, the dark brown handle embedded with tiny red stones like mosquito bites. The blade itself was even sicker, with pockets of rust like sores on a mangy dog. Boy and sword were less than a yard away now. She burst out in a spasm of giggles.

  Look at that ole silly sword!

  Hatch tripped over his own feet making it behind her. He encircled her waist with his arms and hugged her tightly. He gon cut me up! Don’t let him cut me up. I’m sorry, Chitlin! He peeped out from around her waist.

  Let me go. She tried to shake him loose. Couldn’t. He ain’t gon cut nobody.

  Using both hands Chitlin raised the sword above his head like a sledgehammer and brought it wildly down onto the sidewalk. She was too swift, even with Hatch hugging her waist. A taste of gall rose up inside her. She pried Hatch loose. Chitlin readied the sword. She ran right up to him and punched him in the face. He fell straight backward, a domino, and narrowed the concrete.

  The sword fell. Clanged. Nothing moved. Silence. Time.

  Why you hit my baby! A lady under a helmet of pink curlers was running toward Sheila from across the street. She moved with incredible speed, flabby thighs bouncing and balancing on skinny bird calves. Why you hit my baby! Black dots peeped through her faded green T-shirt—cut above the navel—and pubic hair crept up her belly over blue jean shorts, panty small and tight.

  Yo, Slim, someone yelled. People were hanging out windows, watching from the playground.

  Tell her, Shorty.

  Yall, get it on.

  Party time.

  You ain’t got no business puttin yo hands on my child, the bird-slut said, close now.

  How’d you like me to punch you?

  You ain’t gon punch nobody.

  Sheila looked over her shoulder. Mamma. Malice. Still and angry in red house slippers, her hand on something inside the pocket of the flowered housecoat. She’d snapped in her dentures. Hatch was gripping her free hand with both of his.

  Hey, there go another bitch.

  This should be good.

  Word.

  Gon, party, ladies.

  The bird-slut fixed Mamma with a hard cold squint. Mamma watched her back. Chitlin Sandwich managed to raise himself on shaky legs. Then he dropped back to the sidewalk, cartoonlike, as if his bones had been liquefied.

  The bird-slut trained her eyes on him.

  Sheila, get yo behind over here.

  Sheila obeyed Mamma’s order.

  Mamma and the bird-slut stood there, eternally, it seemed, and traded cold stares, eyes flicking.

  I don’t think no hittin will be necessary, Mamma said.

  Mother Chitlin made no response.

  I tell you what: since our children can’t play together, we gon keep them apart.

  Fine wit me. The bir
d-slut leaned from one thin leg to the other.

  Mamma eyed Hatch. Now, he ain’t gon play wit you, and if I find you playin wit him, I’m gon beat yo ass.

  Yes’m.

  Chitlin, get up from there.

  Now, if he bother you, come see me.

  Yes’m.

  Chitlin!

  In one motion Chitlin Sandwich arced to his feet, fast and stiff, like a stepped-on broom.

  Get yo sword.

  He retrieved the sword.

  Mamma stiffened. Hatch lowered his head. Chitlin staggered over to the bird-slut, his shirt collar soaked with blood. He watched Sheila, his powerful will packed into his stare.

  You heard what she said. The bird-slut eyed him, her voice unfaltering. He ain’t gon play wit you, and you ain’t gon play wit him. Find you some new friends.

  Chitlin watched Sheila. The slut snatched him around. They started across the street, the sword dragging behind, sparks showering, crowd parting. He swirled round on one foot and shook his fist at Sheila, slow and stiff. She rolled her eyes. The slut snatched him forward. He craned his bloody neck and threw his eyes back over his shoulder at Sheila. The bird-slut slapped him upside the head.

  A week later Sheila watched the Stonewall playground through the all-knowing third story picture window. Swing set. Two small figures at either end. Vast space between them. Chitlin Sandwich swinging in one direction, Hatch swinging in the other. That thing is done, Mamma said. But, Mamma … I saw them. I—

  Stop botherin me. That thing is done.

  She braked suddenly to avoid tail-ending the car in front of her.

  Hey, lady. Don’t you know how to drive?

  Do yo mamma! She cursed softly. Put her mean foot on the gas like the pedal was a roach. Jerk! Saying it out loud.

  Bubbled in, she drove, all silence and substance. Random contact these past seven years. Casual mentions: Hey, you remember Chitlin Sandwich from the old hood? Well, I ran into him at … Oh, guess what. I bumped into Chitlin Sandwich at … Listen to this. I saw Chitlin Sandwich at … Easily explained, perhaps. (Similar circles: Hatch was a musician—he plunked away for hours at a time, his slow clumsy fingers moving on the strings like earthworms—and Chitlin a producer, an engineer, a technician, a stage manager, and a promoter, in local music circles, and the CEO of Green Wig Productions.) Easily explained but for recent signs denoting more.

  Hatch on the corner. Awaiting her arrival. White Jaguar pulling away from the corner. Slow, taking its time … Hatch passing through a fenced-in (caged) basketball court. Shapely guitar case like a sarcophagus at his side. White Jaguar slowing down to greet him.

  As in olden times, so now. But why had Chitlin Sandwich suddenly launched an open assault, after years of latent wickedness? Mindful of traffic, she snatched her cell phone and pinned it between her raised shoulder and slanted ear. The loud electric buzz taunted her, raising doubt, mocking her effort. Should she call Mamma? Could she awaken her? Were her ears willing?

  Hey, Mamma. It’s me.

  Hey, daughter.

  What you doin?

  Nothin. Jus gettin ready fo bed.

  Where Hatch?

  In there wit that guitar of his. I made him put on those headphones. I ain’t tryin to hear that noise.

  He never stops.

  Does a thief?

  She is thinking about what to say. You know, I need to tell you something.

  What’s that?

  Well, you know …

  Go ahead.

  It’s very important. Very very important.

  Jus tell me.

  Well, Mamma … you got to do something about Hatch and that Chitlin Sandwich.

  What?

  You know, Chitlin Sandwich.

  Who?

  Chitlin Sandwich. You remember him. From Stonewall. Him and his nasty low-life mother.

  Why are you bringing all that up? Cause I saw—

  I mean, that was a long time ago. How many years has that been now?

  But you don’t understand. I saw—

  Didn’t I say I’m through wit all that? Why can’t you listen? Did I not say that I’m through wit all that?

  Sheila hung up the buzzing powerless phone. It was a matter of great sorrow that Mamma could be so naive about the clandestine friendship between Chitlin and Hatch. Left to her care, Hatch’s low-flaming soul would evaporate through his skin. She did not understand the resilient life of evil. Snakes keep a reserved set of fangs. But, given charge, she would set things right.

  She honked a car from her path.

  She was fording a river of steaming greens. Hard bacon, stone under her feet. She rose with the river. Air. She was a green wasp flying through sweet heat. She smoothly landed on a wide tree trunk. Disemboweled it with her stinger. Green viny guts exploded from the tree’s solid interior like coiled toy snakes. Extended in all directions—trails, tracks, traces.

  Advice from the wise: slice them pies.

  Yeah. Get all you can get. And then some.

  That’s why Frank and I are saving all our money to open up this coffee shop. Angela licked a gum-backed stamp, then thumbed it onto a long envelope. It’s gon be the bomb. Computer surfing. Highspeed internet and an iPod room. Virtual-reality room. Game room. DVD room. Pool room. Chess room. You name it. And a good old-fashioned coffee shop and some slammin good coffee.

  Sounds good, Sheila said. She grabbed a file and spread its contents on the desk before her.

  You should invest.

  I’ll think about it. Let me think about it.

  I’ll invest, Niece said.

  You ain’t got no money.

  Niece grinned, proud.

  I don’t believe it, Sheila said. Sight surprised.

  What?

  He wouldn’t.

  What?

  No!

  Girl, what?

  Out in the main banking area, a teller passed Chitlin Sandwich a stack of crisp bills across a marble counter. Have a nice day. Smiled. He did not move from the window. He stood counting the bills, slow and careful.

  Chitlin Sandwich.

  Chitlin who?

  Where?

  Counting done, he slipped the bills inside his blazer, near his heart. Turned and saw Sheila and the other two women watching him. He walked in their direction, casual and unconcerned.

  He better not!

  Who?

  What’s going on?

  He stopped before the glass door that opened into their office and stood there sullenly, watching Sheila. He was so tall that he would need to stoop under the door frame to enter. His wide baggy suit could not hide his puny body. No muscle. His bones lay loosely in his flesh. He studied Sheila a moment longer and moved on.

  Who was that?

  Nobody.

  Call him back, Niece said. He kinda cute.

  Girl, can’t you tell? He’s jus a boy.

  Don’t matter to me. Them young boys never get tired.

  You know him?

  Not really. Sheila pulled up his account on her computer.

  Girl, what you doing? You better finish those files.

  I’ll get to them. In a minute.

  So, you still coming to the march Saturday? Angela snapped for the waiter.

  Yes. Sheila veiled her knees with a green cloth napkin.

  Good.

  You know I’m coming, Niece said. And you better introduce me to some men. I like the political type.

  Girl, please. A towel would get you wet.

  Niece grinned. Proud.

  The waiter arrived, leather-covered pad and pen at the ready. How are you ladies this afternoon?

  Fine. Angela spoke for all of them.

  Something to drink?

  I’ll take the house wine. White.

  He wrote on his pad.

  Me too, Niece said. Red.

  And you, madam?

  Zinfandel.

  Had he asked Sheila a second or two later, she would have muttered Shit. Chitlin Sandwich was lunching—bro
iled lamb and asparagus—alone at a large round draped table, four green triangular edges of tablecloth aimed like arrows at the carpeted floor.

  Who you lookin at?

  She didn’t let on. Nobody.

  And you, madam?

  She sneaked a peek and caught Chitlin Sandwich blowing her a kiss.

  Give me dark. Your best.

  She wheeled the caged cart and placed the items she needed inside it. She had not been shopping long, when she heard him lewdly cracking his knuckles in the next aisle.

  The nexus of speakers blasted out the current chart buster, “Dating Mr. D.,” the brainchild of the crunk group Uranium 235.

  Saw the death of billions

  what could I do?

  Sent a message to you punks and bitches

  couldn’t get through

  From her recessed booth she watched dancers shake their hips, little space between the bodies. She shook her head, astonished. How can they dance to this music? Rowdy. She finished her Pepsi. It was hot in her throat, then hot in her stomach. She had been in Salamanders a good hour, having entered it on the lookout, wheeling her eyes about. Her first time. Angela and Niece came here often, but she had always refused to follow. Too loud. Too many young fools. And that dim eye-hurting light. But purpose had drawn her here tonight.

  She would bypass Mamma and attack the evil at its source. She had only a dim idea how. But her love for her family would serve as both her dagger and her shield.

  These were the last dances before the live music. Sound Productions was scheduled to appear at nine o’clock, ten minutes from now. A small stage had been erected perpendicular to the dance area and parallel to the bar, but the band had yet to appear and set up its equipment.

  A black couple—young man, older woman—entered, attached to each other’s waists, laughing and keeping time to the music. The woman pointed (with pride? curiosity?) to the stage. The man nodded. They danced their way to the bar, found stools, and ordered drinks. Silver pants, the lady’s big horse behind, spread over the bar stool. They sipped their drinks quietly, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman set down her glass, flicked its edge with her finger, then leaned over and kissed the man on the tip of his ear. Mouth close, he whispered something. Her soft laugh floated back. She pulled firmly at his tie. Sheila fumbled with her empty glass. The lady turned her head and looked Sheila full in the face. Her shining eyes seemed to come straight at their target.