Holding Pattern (11 page)

Frieda Lead lived in a small range house with a big picture window, like all the others extending along both sides of the street. Lincoln stood for a moment where her lawn began, observing the house, sun falling hot and bright on his face. Only then did he come to note that his skin had completely tanned. Several quick steps carried him forward. Walked up three short brick steps and pressed the doorbell, then stood waiting in the cool shade of the porch. His damp shirt set him to worrying, kicked up that rare emotion, fear.
What if I stink?
He waited a few more seconds, pressed the buzzer again.

Who is it?

Mrs. Lead? Mrs. Frieda Lead?

Yes?

Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But I’m here on urgent business.

Who?

I need to talk to you about your husband.

What?

I am the General.

What?

I’m here on urgent business relating to your husband.

No response.

Mrs. Lead? He heard fingers at the peephole on the other side of the door. Ma’am?

Yes?

I must talk with you about your husband.

Are you a reporter?

No, ma’am. A friend.

There followed a long moment of silence.

Ma’am? He heard her fingers turning the locks. She opened the door, the chain still on, and stuck her face in the crack. What’s this about?

I think I should speak to you inside, ma’am, in private. He looked around as if he were being followed. No other presence, nothing but the light, glare.

Another moment of silence, of watching and waiting.

My husband?

Yes, ma’am.

You’re the author?

Yes, ma’am. If you’ll allow me to explain. He placed the wedding photograph her husband had sent him where she could see it.

She shut the door, released the chain, then threw the door wide open. Please come in.

Thank you, ma’am. Inside it was cool and dark. I’m sorry if I upset you.

She took him by the elbow and led him to the couch. They both sat down. She took the photograph.

He wrote something on the back of it, ma’am.

She flipped it over and read the letter, then looked casually at Lincoln.

Yes, ma’am. He sent it to me.

I’ll always recognize his handwriting. Emmanuel dotted his
t
’s. She was silent for a moment, studying the letter. Good Lord, I’m forgetting my manners. Can I get you some breakfast?

No, thank you, ma’am. But I will take a glass of water. The new and dimmer setting had yet to cool his skin.

I’ll get you a glass. She placed the photograph on the coffee table in front of them.

Thank you, ma’am. Eyes still aching from the glare outside, he was unable to see clearly—Frieda a blur that rose from the couch and left the room—having only enough vision to take in and admire her healthy behind. He noticed a copy of the wedding picture framed in oak on the table. He continued to look about, could just make out the face of a white Jesus on the wall. That much certain.

Holy Father, Lincoln began, are you interested in my salvation?

What’s that?

Lincoln hadn’t heard her enter. She set the glass of water on the table before him and sat down at one end of the sofa, he at the other, but it was a small sofa, and they were sitting close.

I was speaking to the Holy Father, ma’am.

Praise Jesus, she said.

Praise Jesus, Lincoln said. He looked at the framed photograph. You have my condolences. He drank the water in two rhythmic gulps. It was cool and clean.

Would you like another glass?

If it’s not a bother, ma’am.

No bother.

He watched the rough movements of her hips as she rose, her behind round and fat the way he liked. She returned with another glass.

We read all your books. She motioned to a bookcase in the corner. Every one. More than once.

My deepest thanks for the support.

Your ability to move people with words. Your feeling and understanding.

Nothing special. The rewards of hard work.

You are blessed. Jesus got his eye on you. Frieda went over to the case and removed a book, a hard-spined copy of the General’s last novel,
Hard in Heaven
, which she held before Lincoln’s face, opened to the title page, like a waiter at an upscale restaurant proudly presenting the menu.

I would be honored, ma’am. Lincoln removed a pen from his pants pocket, took the book from her, and autographed it:
To my true friend Frieda, with love and admiration. The General.
He wrote the exact date under the signature and returned the book to her.

She took a moment to read the inscription. You are so kind, she said. She met his eyes—hers round and puffy—and turned away.

My pleasure, ma’am.

She placed the book on the table, before the wedding photograph, then returned to her seat on the couch next to Lincoln. You look much younger than we imagined.

Lincoln smoothed the fold in his trousers. I keep in shape. But I suppose it’s in the genes.

Her face was ordinary except for overly round cheeks that pulled her mouth into a permanent smile. And her eyes, swollen with grief, shone like black reflectors. She wore a short dress that fit tight across her firm outstanding breasts. Lincoln had to admit, Emmanuel had lived well. Oh yes. She placed her hands across her bare knees like napkins and picked up the photograph. He was a credit to the race and all good Christians, ma’am.

Thank you. She ran a hand down her face as if clearing her eyes of water. A knife of sunlight slashed through the space where the draperies met.

I’m sorry that I didn’t know him better.

You knew Emmanuel?

Yes, ma’am.

He never told me.

We were part of an association, Lincoln said. Such lies were routine, in accordance with the dictates of his methods and plans, as he had a store of talk for each of his women. An association created by and for black veterans. A mutual-aid society.

Oh, the association. Emmanuel never told me that you were a member.

We keep our membership secret. But here—he reached into his pocket—I have this for you. He gave her a check for one hundred dollars.

Frieda took the check. What’s this?

I’ll bring one by every Monday.

But why?

It’s our way of taking care of our own, ma’am. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.

Her legs showed beneath her skirt, but he always went slow with his women.

I don’t understand.

God knows best, he said.

Praise Jesus.

Praise Jesus.

She cried—her head was small and round and heavy on his shoulder, and her tears were hot and wet—and so did he, forcing out actual tears. He showered her with innocent hugs and kisses.
Go slow, bro.

Then they prayed. She had a special space for this purpose, a room—a walk-in closet—small and empty except for a wooden card table with a white candle on top. A four-foot-long Jesus hung suspended from the wall, a crown mashed down on his forehead, blood running in thick streams over his face, and his chest open like a door where a fat red heart bulged out. They kneeled before the table and bowed their heads before Jesus. Frieda prayed with the round beads of her rosary, over and over again. And as he prayed alongside her, Lincoln had a distinct feeling that someone was peeking out at him from the corner behind Jesus’ heart.

They returned to the living room. Lincoln collapsed on the couch, Frieda beside him.

The baby bobbed on the cold water. He knew no strokes, only the dead man’s float. Soon, he tired of it and, in cold dignity, raised his hands above the water. He had fine surgeon’s fingers.

When Lincoln came to, Frieda was wiping his face with a wet rag.

Are you okay?

Yes, ma’am. The cords in his throat were tight. I’m sensitive to the heat.

Would you like some water?

Yes.

She exited the room.
Thank God for hips.
Jesus hung, silent, in the shadows.

O Holy Father, speak to me, Lincoln said.

What’s that?

He hadn’t heard her enter.

I was just seeking strength from the Redeemer.

Frieda set the glass of water on the table, between the two photographs. Should we pray some more?

In a little while, Lincoln said. He drained the glass, coolness sloshing around inside him.

You have great shoes, Frieda said.

Thank you.

They sat for a while, Frieda bumping his knee with hers at random intervals, a knee stinging with warmth. Lincoln looked her full in the face. She met his eyes for as long as he wanted. He gave her his best smile.

He left her house several hours later, she propped in the doorway, looking after him as they said their final good-byes. The day diminishing, manageable light. He blew her a kiss from that spot near the lawn where he had taken his first glimpse of her house.

Washington Boulevard. Lincoln felt a welling in his chest, a live coal, a wave of hurt spreading over his body. He rested for a moment against the rough brick face of a building. Some ten feet away a white boy was handing out flyers to passersby. He was as tall as Lincoln but rail thin, like a sheep shorn of wool, his gray eyes penetrating metal rods. A gold earring hung in orbit beneath his left earlobe, a bright miniature sun. And he was dressed street snazzy, in a black sweat suit, Nike sneakers, and a red baseball cap pushed way back on his head. He pivoted this way and that, shoving the flyers into any chest that chanced near him, all the while rapping some popular tune:

He smelled so sweet that Lincoln wondered if his body were a chamber where, deep inside, incense smoldered and burned. Lincoln eased himself upright and took one of the flyers, then read the message printed there in bright shocking colors:

Lincoln punched the white boy in the jaw, knocking him flat to the concrete, flyers spilling around him. What the fuck is this? The boy lay there, flat. Lincoln repeated his question. After a while, the boy managed to raise his head. Did you make this? Lincoln held the crumpled flyer in his hand.

The boy rested on one elbow, rubbing his jaw. Damn, homey, he said. You didn’t have to fire on me. One side of his face was red.

Did you make this?

Goddamn. The boy rubbed his jaw.

Lincoln took a step forward. Did you make this?

No, don’t hit me again. He made a pleading gesture with his hands.

Well, tell me. Did you make this flyer?

No.

Who did?

The boy rose to his knees. Took his time answering. The people I work for. He stood up, legs shaky. Tucked the flyers under his arm.

Who do you work for?

Man, those are some cool shoes. He studied Lincoln’s pointed cordovans. Where did you cop them?

Look—

You must not do a lot of walking. The white boy stood there, rubber-legged.

Look, I’m going to ask you one last time. Lincoln was choking with rage. Who do you work for? He looked at the flyer. FUSION?

The boy shook his legs out.

Is it FUSION? Who do you work for?

Your mamma.

You always be seein some wacky shit on the train. Bitch slap a nigga for eyein her. Nigga piss on somebody who piss him off. Somebody get they throat slit over a gold chain. Shit like that. Like, this one time, I see this nigga fall flat on his back in the aisle. His teeth start rattlin like keys, and then he start shakin down the aisle and shake all the way to the other end of the car. Another time, this bitch face bleed away. I mean, she just sittin in her seat, mindin her own business, when this gash open in the sidea her neck. She put her palm over the gash, but it keep inchin up her neck. She put her other palm over that gash, but another gash start up the other sidea her neck. And these two gashes keep climbin and climbin, like they runnin a race, climbin right on up to her chin, up her face, then spread this net of blood all over her forehead. Bitch open her mouth like she fin to holler, but her tongue all red and drownin in blood. She put her hands over her face, and her hands change to blood. Then her head fall right offa her neck and go bouncin and rollin down the aisle. You shoulda seen it. Everybody screamin, tryin to jump off the train, wit nowhere to go. Some wacky shit.

The kinda shit this trippy world can put on your brain. And that ain’t the least of it. You’ve heard about the jumpers, the suicides. Well, one time, I was all the way up inna first car, standin there lookin through the head window down on the tracks, seein what the engineer sees. And I see this lady kneelin between the tracks, inna path of the train. She looks up and sees the train bearin down on her. Her eyes get all wide and bright, and she gets that look like, Oh shit, what the fuck am I doin? So she hops up real quick and tries to squeeze her body flat against the tunnel wall so the train will slip right by her. But inna situation like that, you jus can’t slim up and disappear.

Some trippy shit. And I could tell you more. Lots more. But to spare you the trouble, I’m jus gon tell you bout this one day that beat all. Why I had to stop ridin the trains altogether and institute a career change.

See, I had this routine. Rise early, freshen up. In this profession it’s real important to smell good. For extra protection, smear some liquid soap under yo armpits. (This one department sto downtown got the best shit. That perfumey shit. Top-of-the-line. Always fill you up a lil plastic bag or two for later use.) That day I tiptoe down the fire escape (my landlord can be a real bitch when it’s that time of the month) and make my way down to the cage for the mornin bets.

It’s bright and early in the mornin, but niggas is already out. Standin on the sidelines around the cage, lookin through the metal fence, twenty foot tall or higher. Lined up like a flock of birds on a telephone wire. Don’t play no ball myself. Niggas is too rough, all elbows and feet and teeth. But I don’t mind watchin from the sideline. Place my bets and flip some money. I got a good eye for that kind of thing.