Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

Tall, skinny, and knock-kneed, twelve-year-old Mary lived a few houses down from Lincoln — a year older — in the John Henry Homes development, a tidy block of two-flat government housing projects with grass clean enough to eat. Lincoln tried to woo her with sugary gifts of Now and Laters, strawberry pop, barbecue potato chips, licorice, salted sunflower seeds. When this didn’t work, he wrote her poems and letters in the solitude of his room. On a day when he found the courage, he followed her home from school, read snatches of red words.

Mary laughed and laughed. You so corny.

Another day, he pulled out his dick and shook it at her.

Ugh. You so nasty. She kissed him, working her tongue.

They rushed over to her house, since her parents were away laboring for bread and keep.

I don’t want no baby, she said. She wriggled her dress down over her hips.

In the darkness of her room, the bed creaked and her moans crackled in Lincoln’s ears. Perhaps his piston-rhythm piston weight was breaking and crushing her bones, but he didn’t stop until he came. Holy Father! he shouted.

Ugh. You peeing in me, Mary said. She pushed him off her. Left the room and returned, lickety-split, with her German shepherd, a beast with teeth like jagged cliffs. Lincoln finished zipping his pants. Mary pointed at him. Frankenstein, sic! But Lincoln had already started for the door. He proved faster than the dog.

Lincoln could still feel Mary’s kiss burning on his lips.

Cool air blew through the bus, which had taken on a little speed, tires humming. Frieda Lead lived in Crescent Hills, at the very end of the boulevard, an interracial suburb with smoothly paved streets, gravel drives, trees on low hills, mowed lawns, and trimmed hedges. The bus traveled a perfect loop, so that, later, Lincoln had only to cross to the other side of the boulevard for the return ride home.

Niece, did you see what was on the flo of the bathroom yesterday? the first girl said.

Um-huh. Girl, who would leave something like that on the flo? the second girl replied.

The white man came from the back of the bus with a funny little walk: one shoulder down, then the other, hands stuffed in the pockets of his winter coat. The old woman pinched her nose as he passed. He sat down in the seat directly behind the first girl, who was closest to the aisle. Both girls spun in their seats.

Whatever was on that floor, the white man said, couldn’t have been as ugly as your goddamn face.

Who you talkin to, gray? the first girl said.

I’m talkin to you, bitch!

Ut-oh, Niece. I’m gon cut this mudda fudda! She rose with switchblade swiftness and reached for something in the back pocket of her bicycle pants.

Nancy, be cool!

Lincoln bounded out of his seat and seized the girl’s hand. It was hot. And soft. Take it easy, ma’am.

She tried to twist free of his grip. Let me go.

Please, ma’am. He’s not worth it. Her skin was soft. And hot.

You better let me go. Nobody calls me a bitch.

He right, Nancy. Be cool.

He’s not worth it.

Fuck you! the white man said to Lincoln.

Lincoln glared at him. He reeked of sweat, his hair matted like wet fur. He wasn’t as old as Lincoln had thought; in fact, they could have been the same age. Fine skin fleshed out a face where green eyes shone through dirt like exotic gems. I suggest you find another seat, Lincoln said. He released the girl’s wrist but held her in the corner of his eye.

The white man sprang to his feet, like ice water had been spilled on his back. He was small but solid. As he and Lincoln squared off, his face grew hard, eyes flooding, changing color, two pools of swirling blood.

Find a seat or I’ll knock you into one, Lincoln said. He was on the edge of a great venture. He would leap over the gulf in his life.

Come on. The white man crouched low and raised his fists.

Lincoln showed him two sets of hard knuckles. I think you’d better get off the bus.

The white man maintained his crouch. Lincoln squeezed his fist and cracked his knuckles, mimicking the terrifying sound of some powerful force crushing steel. The white man pulled himself upright, fists raised. I’ll fight you, he said, even though you ain’t my size. Lincoln moved forward. The white man pop-locked in fear and fled to the rear exit of the bus. Leave me alone or I’ll jump, he said. Lincoln took a step toward him. He jumped.

Gawd, Nancy said. You see that crazy white fool?

Um-huh, Niece said.

The bus screeched to a halt, throwing everyone forward. Lincoln regained his balance and walked with the slow certainty of a meter maid to the rear exit, where he stepped into the jumper’s ghostly residue, thick stink. The near-giant driver came down the aisle, head bent to avoid hitting the roof of the bus. He looked at Lincoln, pop eyes swelling in anger. What the fuck is going on back here?

The old woman looked at Lincoln. He forced a paying passenger to jump from the bus, she said. The wrinkles in her face twitched like live wires.

Nawl, that white fool jumped from the bus, Nancy said.

My God! the driver said. He rushed to the rear exit, shoving Lincoln aside.

Yeah, Niece said. He called her a bitch, and this dude — she pointed at Lincoln — came back here to see what the deal was. The driver had already exited the bus.

Why don’t you just shut your mouth, the woman said.

Make me. You ain’t my mamma.

True, but I’ll still slap the shit out of you.

Niece didn’t say anything. Neither did Nancy.

Lincoln moved to a window. A crowd had gathered. The driver stood over the white man, who lay crumpled in the street.

I’m hurt, the white man said.

Right, the driver said.

I’m hurt!

The driver looked at him. I’ll give you some hurt, he said. The wind moved over his shirt and the shirt over his muscles.

Okay, okay, the white man said. Help me up! He extended his arms, and the driver pulled him to his feet — an acrobatic routine. Easy, brother, the white man said. The driver gave him a look. Using both hands, he brushed the white man’s coat free of dust, and the lucky recipient responded like some grim clown by snapping the creases in the driver’s pants. The driver gave him a look. Then the white man spotted Lincoln and gave him the finger. The driver shoved the white man forward. Get on the bus. They forced a path through the crowd, dust clouds whirling behind them, and got back on the bus. The white man sat down in Lincoln’s vacated seat, cuts, welts, and red half-moons mapping his face.

Hear ye, hear ye, the driver said. At the sound of my voice the time will be eight forty-five. Welcome to the Love Bus.

That scanlous white man, Nancy said.

Shit, Niece said.

Lincoln was heading directly for the white man when he spotted one of his novels, Hot Nights and Napalm , on Nancy’s lap.

Excuse me, ma’am, Lincoln said.

What you want? She was still angry.

Let me introduce myself, ma’am.

Why bother.

Nancy, you need to quit.

I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.

Why don’t you go catch a truck.

Niece snickered.

You fast gals can get hurt talking to me like that, Lincoln said.

Mister, you better sit down, the old woman under the tam said. She had her hand on something bulging inside her purse.

Ain’t gon be no mo shit on my bus! the driver screamed. He was watching Lincoln in his rearview mirror, pop eyes straining like water-filled balloons. Either you find a seat, or I’m callin the police.

You have a witness in me, the old woman said. My name is Barbara Bleach Breedlove.

Okay, the driver said.

That’s Barbara Bleach Breedlove.

Lincoln gave her his meanest look.

Sir, you better keep your eyes where they belong.