Holding Pattern (3 page)

Blunt plucked the strings with her right thumb—big as a shoehorn—while she twisted the tuning pegs with her left fingers, releasing long scraping vibrations like those of a dragging muffler. Hands working, she tested the strings some more and nodded to herself when she achieved the desired pitch.

And now, for my next tune—

Hatch did not laugh at her joke.

She cleared her throat. Stroked the strings and set them humming. Opened her mouth wide in song.

Hatch’s heart tightened. He rode deep waves of thought and feeling that carried him to some far-off place in the room, where he sat alone, in a small boat, spiraling on a whirlpool of blue water.

Mamma started briskly for the kitchen. Hatch went dizzily after her. Mamma? Where you going?

To do my cleaning.

Come and hear Blunt.

I can hear her from in here.

Come hear. A lasting spray of blue water, cool on his skin.

Come see Blunt play.

You go back and watch her.

He went back. Why you stop? Go on. Play some more.

No. It’s late in the evening. Folks trying to sleep. Blunt put the guitar back inside the case and closed lid and latches. Maybe I’ll teach
you
how to play tomorrow.

Really?

Yes.

I’d like that.

Mamma came into the room. Hatch, bedtime.

Fine.

Time for bed.

Fine.

Good night, Mamma said. She kissed him.

Good night.

Good night, Blunt said. She kissed him, her big lips wet on his face, her pug nose hard against his cheek.

Good night. Anger dragged him from the room and to a dark thinking place under Mamma’s bedsheets.

He lay there for some time, weighing, calculating, then quietly left the bed at the precise moment when Mamma and Blunt would falsely believe him asleep. He tiptoed over to the French doors and put his ear to the cold squared glass.

Please try.

I will.

You know plenty. So please …

I understand.

Yes. That’s all I’m asking. He’s still young.

I will.

Well, I said my piece. Good night, Blunt.

Good night, Joy … daughter.

Hatch hurried back into bed and pulled the covers over his head. He heard Mamma enter the room. Felt the opposite side of the mattress sag under her weight. He kept his back toward her as a wall and waited for sleep to come.

I must leave for work.

Why? Blunt said. I see no need.

Mamma seemed to ponder the words. Thank you, Blunt. I’m glad to hear you say that.

No need to thank me. Those bones is tired. It’s time for some rest.

I won’t argue … Well, I better get Hatch to school.

You two go ahead. I’ll stay here and get some rest. Still ain’t got that train out of my system.

Okay, Mamma said.

Good-bye, Blunt, Hatch said. He smiled up at her.

Good-bye, Hatch. Yall need money for a cab? It’s a bad day out there.

That would be nice, Mamma said.

Rubber boots inches above the floor, Hatch floated on the seat, an astronaut in his inflated snowsuit.

Why do I have to go to school today?

Because that’s your responsibility.

You got frank with me about Blunt and the preacher and you got frank with me about my father because you want me to be responsible? She had once explained it to him.

Yes.

Is Blunt responsible?

Why do you ask?

She still be responsible if she run away from the preacher?

Good people stick by those who are good to them.

The preacher was good?

Yes.

That’s not what you said.

What did I say?

You know what you said.

You misunderstood.

He was good?

Yes?

Why?

He helped her.

Are you being frank?

Yes.

They swung over to the curb.

Be good. She kissed his cheek.

I will. He wasn’t sure if she had been frank.

She paid the driver. Driver, could you please wait? I’ll be right back.

You got it.

They quit the cab and took the short path to the school.

Be good.

I will.

When school let out, he found Mamma waiting for him in an idling cab. He spoke excitedly about a typical school day. They had a quick ride home, the cab seemingly sliding above the snow like a great yellow sled.

Blunt! Blunt! We’re home!

He ran freely through the apartment. Blunt’s eyes stopped him, heavy on mind and skin, holding him in place like paperweights.

What happened to your eyes? Hatch asked. They’re blue.

I’ll show you. Blunt moved into Hatch’s bedroom, her large body in blue silk pajamas, hair flowing like a silver wave down to her nape. She returned with a small plastic case resting on her palm. These are contact lenses, she said.

What? Hatch said.

She removed something from the case, raised her hand to her eye. Removed her hand. Now her eye was green. The other was still blue.

How’d you do that?

Contact lenses, she said. She held out the case, full of many colored lenses, painted Easter eggs.

Wow.

Those are lovely, Mamma said.

Blunt smiled with radiant satisfaction. Eager to please, she turned her eye gray, then light brown, then green, then blue again.

Lahzonyah, Blunt called it. Lah-zon-yah. He tried to rise to his feet but found himself anchored to the seat, his stomach heavy with sunken treasure, the long empty casserole dish abandoned in the middle of the table like a beached boat.

Play some music.

Mamma glared at him over the hot coffee at her lips.

Maybe later, Hatch. Let my food digest first.

How long will that take?

Blunt laughed. Do you know that I used to have my own place where I could play music anytime I wanted and where dozens and dozens of people would come see me?

Mamma noisily returned her cup to the saucer.

What did you call it? Hatch asked.

The Red Rooster.

Did it look like a red rooster?

Blunt laughed. No. Like a barn. The only barn in Harlem.

Did it have—

Saturday, we should do some sightseeing, Mamma said. The coffee steamed up into her face. You haven’t seen the city.

That’ll be fine, Blunt said. How does that sound to you, Hatch?

Fine, he said. Please play your guitar tonight.

Why don’t you ask your mother if it’s okay with her?

Hatch looked at Mamma.

She was a long time in answering. I don’t see why not.

Great. Blunt hammered a beat on the table with her roach-slaying palm.

After some time, she arranged herself in a chair with her guitar.

Bright stringed music radiated from the sunburst guitar and enwebbed the entire room. Job done, the rays recoiled back into the dark sound hole.

Play another one!

Bedtime, Mamma said.

No, it’s not.

Bedtime.

It’s too early.

Bedtime.

Fine.

Come on.

Fine.

Good night, Hatch. Blunt kissed him.

Good night.

He stalked out of the room. Pounced upon Mamma’s bed and clawed the sheets. Voices on the other side of the glassed door tamed his anger.

I asked you.

I’m sorry.

I mean—

I really am sorry.

I explained my reasons.

Yes. He is a child.

I mean, you know plenty. What was that one the preacher liked?

“Unchanging Hand.”

Yes. How about that one?

A solid choice.

I’ve tried. Tried my best. I’ve been patient. More than patient. I’m not one to cry over spoiled milk.

No, you aren’t. And bless you for it. If you put spoiled milk in the refrigerator at night, it’ll still be spoiled in the morning.

Yes.

Oh, Joy, I know. You may not believe it, but I know. You see, I ain’t much to look at. No feast for the eye. But the preacher chose me.

He wasn’t a pretty man himself.

No, he wasn’t, but he was a good man … Sometimes you had to fish for it. And good fish stay deep. Only the dead ones float on top.

Well, Mamma said, one might look at it that way.

Spoiled milk and dead fish both stink.

That’s true.

Good night, Joy. Daughter.

Good night, Blunt. Mother.

The next morning Hatch rose early and watched Mamma wake from the gray paralysis of sleep. She struggled out of bed, her hands positioned at her chest like a gloved surgeon’s, careful not to touch anything or let anything touch her. More than once he had watched her sore hands soak for hours in a deep tub of warm water and Epsom salt.

Mamma?

What?

Is Blunt sad?

What makes you think that?

Is she sad because the preacher died?

I don’t know.

Is that why she can sing and stroke and make—

Don’t talk that way.

I’m being frank.

You aren’t being frank. Don’t talk like that.

How come she likes to—

That’s enough. Get ready for school.

They bathed and clothed themselves, then entered the kitchen, the table set and breakfast prepared. Blunt followed her sweet heavy perfume into the room, tight leather jumpsuit and tall leather boots slowing and constricting her movement, and her makeup so thick, she struggled to keep her chin up.

Good morning, Blunt.

Good morning, Joy.

Good morning, Hatch.

Good morning, Blunt. Blunt bent down—her eyes gray—and kissed him, then drew herself straight. In that space of time he glimpsed something in her face.

They all sat down at the round wood table.

Why are you dressed so early? Mamma asked.

I’m going out to buy some new guitar strings.

Mamma didn’t say anything.

Maybe I’ll even buy a new guitar.

Can you find your way around?

Sure. I’ll take a cab.

Mamma, let Blunt take me to school today.

Remember your place.

No, Joy. It’s okay.

No, it’s not okay. He’s too smart for his own good.

That is so. How bout I take him to school today—if it’s okay with you.

Mamma hesitated. Looked at Blunt. Looked at Hatch. Looked at Blunt again. Perhaps that would be good.

Blunt smiled.

I’ll write down the address. Just show it to the driver.

Of course.

Blunt sat next to him, like a big block of ice in her white fur coat. The weather had not changed. For the first time, he was glad to be inside the padded snowsuit. Kind. The two of them all plump, like fresh pastries on display. But he found it hard to keep still in his seat, victim to the stab of wondering. Should he confront her about what he thought he’d glimpsed in her eyes? Confront her about what he’d overheard last night? Something about dead fish, spoiled milk, and funky smells.
Maybe she is a phony. Maybe she jus playin and singin to make me like her.
His curiosity caused him to sight down the guitar’s polished neck, fret by fret—railroad ties—to the ragged paper edge of a brown grocery bag; and to continue down the bag’s side, to a bottom corner and Blunt’s black boot wedging it in place. Why had she not brought the case along? Surely Mamma had noticed. Should he—

How do you like school?

Just fine.

Of course you like it. You’re a smart boy, and you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you.

Thank you.

I was real proud when you graduated from kindergarten.

Hatch said nothing.

That beautiful picture Joy sent me.

Yes.

And now we’re all together.

Yes.

I’ll buy that new guitar and play something nice for you this evening.

Fine. Will you play—

Maybe. Let’s wait and see what your mother wants to hear.

Why did you put yo guitar in that bag?

Blunt didn’t say anything for a moment. Why, didn’t I jus tell you? I plan to sell it.

Why you leave yo case at home?

I don’t need it.

Why you ain’t jus throw yo guitar away?

Some people are needy.

You want to help the needy people?

Yes.

So you want needy people to have yo guitar?

Yes.

Why?

Because—

Let me have it.

Oh. You don’t want this old thing.

Why not?

It barely plays.

I thought you said you gon teach me how to play.

Yes.

Then I can use that old thing.

I’ll buy you a nice new one.

Fine.

But—

Fine.

Wouldn’t you like a new guitar?

Sure, he said.
But you ain’t gon buy it
, he thought.

Enjoy school, Blunt said. She kissed him on the cheek.

I will, he said. Her pug nose looked like a big beetle stuck on to her face.

Good-bye, Hatch.

Good-bye, Blunt.

Where’s Blunt?

Plumed exhaust rose from the idling cab.

She hasn’t returned. Mamma spoke from the dark cavelike inside.

She was sposed to pick me up.

Mamma blinked nervously. Did she say that?

No.

Well.

I thought she was gon pick me up.

Watch your mouth. Those kids at this school are a bad influence.

She was sposed to pick me up.

Get in this cab.

He got inside the cab. The driver pulled off.

How come we can’t take the train? He spoke to the moving window, the moving world.

We have no reason to take the train.

I’m being frank.

Please be quiet.

He obliged. Quiet and caught, the living moment before him and behind. He tried to imagine Blunt’s face and received the taste of steel on his tongue. He let his violence fly free like the soaring El cars above, a flock of steel birds rising out of a dark tunnel, into bright air, the city shrinking below.