Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

I’m not bothering you, granny.

And you better watch how you speak to me, or I’ll come over there and beat you like a bald-headed stepchild.

Lincoln spit out a laugh.

Okay now, the driver said.

Lincoln didn’t want any trouble. The driver might be every bit as powerful as he was ugly. He slipped forward and took the seat at the rear of the bus. Felt something cold settle in his stomach.

It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, the old woman said.

Amused, the driver shook his head.

The girls snickered, their shaved-braided heads moving as one. Lincoln just sat there. The white man winked a green eye at him.

Smirking and grinning, the girls exited the bus at the James Madison Public Academy. Lincoln noticed that Niece was also carrying one of his novels — spread the news: three sightings in less than an hour, in one location— Brave and Tender.

A few blocks later, the old woman rose to exit. She looked at Lincoln. Didn’t nobody learn you nothing?

Well, granny, you sure didn’t.

Just one more word, the driver said. He watched Lincoln in the mirror.

Lord, give me the strength so I won’t have to hurt nobody today. The old lady’s hair was so white under the sun that Lincoln’s eyes began to hurt. Old-ass granny. She adjusted her white bow and rolled her own eyes at him as she exited. The white man went behind her. Brother, you have some ugly shoes, he said. He gave Lincoln the finger. White trash. Lincoln sat in silence.

The bus hummed to the bridge that separated Crescent Hills from the city proper. Lincoln saw rippling water beneath. Little by little, his death took shape. This morning, he would seduce Frieda Lead— We’re in this together, ma’am, you and me, the same —then catch the bus back to the city. Under the lingering sweetness of his conquest, he would swagger down Congress Avenue. See the traffic cop again. At a chain bookstore he would purchase a copy of Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party. Once home, he would disrobe and retire to his bedroom to make careful study of the book’s glossy and finely reproduced illustrations of postmodern vaginas. It would take him some time to emerge from this papery maze, satisfied and at ease with his discoveries. He would record the day’s events in his diary— Frieda Lead: she moved me —work on his new novel, with little success, then go out for a walk and chance upon a flyer circulated by FUSION. Deck a white boy. Chase the speeding boy down Washington Boulevard. (His smell lingering. Jet trail. Never seen anyone run so fast. ) Chance upon the billboard Jesus for the second time that day. See Jesus shake his head. Return home in the last shimmer of day. (Lamps already lit along the alleyways.) Receive an anonymous phone call: Brother, your days are numbered. The next morning, he would read the Daily Observer , see his brother’s name, rush into the elevator and out the building onto the expressway. Never before had the sun shone so bright.

II

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.