Holding Pattern (22 page)

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—broiled 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.

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.

Sheila took cover behind her raised hand. Yes. Recognize her anywhere. That’s Chitlin Sandwich’s mother. The bird-slut.

Sheila lowered her hand and turned her eyes to the dance floor, jammed with waving arms, wiggling bottoms, and shuffling feet. The speakers blared “Tea with Mr. B.” by the Sam Hill Roughriders.

The floor lit now by clicking light, and the dancers showing up—green, black, green, black—beneath it.

At nine o’clock the music abruptly ceased, and a dapper and nervous announcer took the stage. Look, I’m sorry, folks, but our scheduled band won’t be appearing tonight.

The interrupted dancers seemed indifferent.

A traffic jam or something. Sorry. Drinks on the house.

I am the light, I am the load. Skee-dee-skee-dop-ba-du-re-bop-pop-mop-shop-pow! I am the light. I am the load. Skee-dee-slop-pop-be-hop-dop-pow! Born of the cross, birthed on the cross. Died in the bush, dead in the bush. Push. Push. Dead in the bush, red in the push. Gush. Gush. Skee-bop-zop-uh-pow! I am the light, I am the load.

There, in the solitude of her bedroom, she took the phone, the numbers blinking square light in the dark. She put the phone back. Out of her hands now. The simple necessity of faith.

Guess who went to the doctor?

Niece, not again?

Uh-huh. Niece closed her eyes with a wide grin.

So how many will that make? Four?

Five.

You should be ashamed.

Alone on the sofa, in her apartment, Sheila did not share what she was thinking. She had not done so the entire evening.

I already told Frank I ain’t never havin no babies. He ain’t gon stretch out my coochie. Though married, Angela was fond of a halter and miniskirt and stockingless legs, fond of long strings of pearls that hung from her neck to her knees and a cloche hat that hid her eyebrows.

You can have a Caesarean, Niece said. A bikini cut.

Ain’t nobody cuttin me.

They put you under. And they only cut you a little.

No way. Angela shook her head slowly, like a wronged child.

It’s simple.

Simple or not simple, ain’t nobody takin my boo-boop-a-doop away.

From the couch, Niece kicked her meaty legs in laughter. What about you, Sheila?

Yeah. How come you ain’t sayin nothin?

I’m listenin, that’s all. Nothing to say.

Bat got yo tongue?

Question. Niece squeezed her face into a serious expression. Do you know how to Mexican-kiss?

Don’t ask her that. You know she saved.

I never said that. When did you hear me—

Saved. Saved.
Angela clapped her hands and made a song of it.

I’m saved too. Niece tongued her lips.

Many evenings like this. Shades open. A cold wash of stars. Niece had reported her latest fuck while Angela demonstrated the latest dance. Sheila watched them now with flying longing and compassion, for she saw deeper than they could see, deeper, to the indestructible element.

I think Mr. So-and-So at work got a crush on you.

Not on me. You.

Speakin of work, why you ain’t finish those files?

I know. I should have.

Well, why didn’t you? Gon be hell to pay come Monday morning.

I ain’t worried.

You should be.

Sheila pulled her knees to her chin and chest. She sat, silent, and wondering, and staring into the night.

Let’s wait a little while longer. (Frank Poor was squat.) We’ll be moving along shortly. (No taller than Angela.) No need to rush. (Shorter, perhaps.) We should have a good turnout. (His potbelly—) A thousand people. (—drooping, anchoring him to the earth.) Or more. (Darker than her, black and shiny, like a button.) We did extensive canvassing. (He published his own newspaper,
Make the Rich Pay!
) In fact, did some last-minute canvassing last night. (Taught fire walking on the weekends.) Is this your first?

No, Sheila lied. She had once given to the NAACP. (Or was it the United Negro College Fund?) All told, this was the extent of her political involvement.

Welcome.

Glad to be here.

Fifteen or twenty people formed a broken lopsided sphere on the road. Dressed in athletic gear, as if prepared to run a marathon. Sheila: clothed in the extremity of summer color. Her shoes new and enduring. They patiently waited, conversing, exchanging victories and defeats, tales brought to life again. Sheila listened to it all, speaking when spoken to.

Glad you came out.

Glad you could make it.

She felt her anxiety lift. The touch of harmony.

Play this one by ear. Frank roused the group. Don’t think about past experiences. Every leaf is different. Let’s remember what we are here to do today.

She joined the line, in military formation. Allowed herself to be propelled forward. Posters waving.

The sky was clear after a morning rain. Beads of water glistened in the rain-washed road. Both sides of the road lined with thickly leaved trees, green and still heavy with rain, their top branches and boughs tangled in the sky.

The people!

United!

Shall never be defeated!

The people!

United!

Shall never be defeated!

Spectators, white and black and otherwise, came out to observe the procession. Laughed and shook their heads as if at some corny circus act.

The hallmark of stupidity. Frank frowned. This nation was founded by men who hid behind barns, and smoked corn silk. And if those lumberjacks—he nodded—are any indication, this is still a country with shit in its boots.

Some ways down the road, Chitlin Sandwich stood in the driveway of Bingo Bob’s Car Repair. Chitlin Sandwich. The stiff brooding materiality of youth.

Hey, ain’t that the boy who was at the bank?

Yeah. What’s his name? Pig Ear Sandwich?