Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

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 straight 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.