Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

Lincoln smoothed the fold in his trousers. I keep in shape. But I suppose it’s in the genes.

Her face was ordinary except for overly round cheeks that pulled her mouth into a permanent smile. And her eyes, swollen with grief, shone like black reflectors. She wore a short dress that fit tight across her firm outstanding breasts. Lincoln had to admit, Emmanuel had lived well. Oh yes. She placed her hands across her bare knees like napkins and picked up the photograph. He was a credit to the race and all good Christians, ma’am.

Thank you. She ran a hand down her face as if clearing her eyes of water. A knife of sunlight slashed through the space where the draperies met.

I’m sorry that I didn’t know him better.

You knew Emmanuel?

Yes, ma’am.

He never told me.

We were part of an association, Lincoln said. Such lies were routine, in accordance with the dictates of his methods and plans, as he had a store of talk for each of his women. An association created by and for black veterans. A mutual-aid society.

Oh, the association. Emmanuel never told me that you were a member.

We keep our membership secret. But here — he reached into his pocket — I have this for you. He gave her a check for one hundred dollars.

Frieda took the check. What’s this?

I’ll bring one by every Monday.

But why?

It’s our way of taking care of our own, ma’am. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.

Her legs showed beneath her skirt, but he always went slow with his women.

I don’t understand.

God knows best, he said.

Praise Jesus.

Praise Jesus.

She cried — her head was small and round and heavy on his shoulder, and her tears were hot and wet — and so did he, forcing out actual tears. He showered her with innocent hugs and kisses. Go slow, bro.

Then they prayed. She had a special space for this purpose, a room — a walk-in closet — small and empty except for a wooden card table with a white candle on top. A four-foot-long Jesus hung suspended from the wall, a crown mashed down on his forehead, blood running in thick streams over his face, and his chest open like a door where a fat red heart bulged out. They kneeled before the table and bowed their heads before Jesus. Frieda prayed with the round beads of her rosary, over and over again. And as he prayed alongside her, Lincoln had a distinct feeling that someone was peeking out at him from the corner behind Jesus’ heart.

They returned to the living room. Lincoln collapsed on the couch, Frieda beside him.

The baby bobbed on the cold water. He knew no strokes, only the dead man’s float. Soon, he tired of it and, in cold dignity, raised his hands above the water. He had fine surgeon’s fingers.

When Lincoln came to, Frieda was wiping his face with a wet rag.

Are you okay?

Yes, ma’am. The cords in his throat were tight. I’m sensitive to the heat.

Would you like some water?

Yes.

She exited the room. Thank God for hips. Jesus hung, silent, in the shadows.

O Holy Father, speak to me, Lincoln said.

What’s that?

He hadn’t heard her enter.

I was just seeking strength from the Redeemer.

Frieda set the glass of water on the table, between the two photographs. Should we pray some more?

In a little while, Lincoln said. He drained the glass, coolness sloshing around inside him.

You have great shoes, Frieda said.

Thank you.

They sat for a while, Frieda bumping his knee with hers at random intervals, a knee stinging with warmth. Lincoln looked her full in the face. She met his eyes for as long as he wanted. He gave her his best smile.

He left her house several hours later, she propped in the doorway, looking after him as they said their final good-byes. The day diminishing, manageable light. He blew her a kiss from that spot near the lawn where he had taken his first glimpse of her house.

Washington Boulevard. Lincoln felt a welling in his chest, a live coal, a wave of hurt spreading over his body. He rested for a moment against the rough brick face of a building. Some ten feet away a white boy was handing out flyers to passersby. He was as tall as Lincoln but rail thin, like a sheep shorn of wool, his gray eyes penetrating metal rods. A gold earring hung in orbit beneath his left earlobe, a bright miniature sun. And he was dressed street snazzy, in a black sweat suit, Nike sneakers, and a red baseball cap pushed way back on his head. He pivoted this way and that, shoving the flyers into any chest that chanced near him, all the while rapping some popular tune:

I’m smooth as silk and sweet as honey

My fingers produce a lot of jam and money.

He smelled so sweet that Lincoln wondered if his body were a chamber where, deep inside, incense smoldered and burned. Lincoln eased himself upright and took one of the flyers, then read the message printed there in bright shocking colors:

Know this title , Hard In Heaven. Authored by the General.

This book sucks rank dick. A public-service message. FUSION

Lincoln punched the white boy in the jaw, knocking him flat to the concrete, flyers spilling around him. What the fuck is this? The boy lay there, flat. Lincoln repeated his question. After a while, the boy managed to raise his head. Did you make this? Lincoln held the crumpled flyer in his hand.

The boy rested on one elbow, rubbing his jaw. Damn, homey, he said. You didn’t have to fire on me. One side of his face was red.

Did you make this?

Goddamn. The boy rubbed his jaw.

Lincoln took a step forward. Did you make this?

No, don’t hit me again. He made a pleading gesture with his hands.

Well, tell me. Did you make this flyer?

No.

Who did?

The boy rose to his knees. Took his time answering. The people I work for. He stood up, legs shaky. Tucked the flyers under his arm.

Who do you work for?

Man, those are some cool shoes. He studied Lincoln’s pointed cordovans. Where did you cop them?

Look—

You must not do a lot of walking. The white boy stood there, rubber-legged.

Look, I’m going to ask you one last time. Lincoln was choking with rage. Who do you work for? He looked at the flyer. FUSION?

The boy shook his legs out.

Is it FUSION? Who do you work for?

Your mamma.

You always be seein some wacky shit on the train. Bitch slap a nigga for eyein her. Nigga piss on somebody who piss him off. Somebody get they throat slit over a gold chain. Shit like that. Like, this one time, I see this nigga fall flat on his back in the aisle. His teeth start rattlin like keys, and then he start shakin down the aisle and shake all the way to the other end of the car. Another time, this bitch face bleed away. I mean, she just sittin in her seat, mindin her own business, when this gash open in the sidea her neck. She put her palm over the gash, but it keep inchin up her neck. She put her other palm over that gash, but another gash start up the other sidea her neck. And these two gashes keep climbin and climbin, like they runnin a race, climbin right on up to her chin, up her face, then spread this net of blood all over her forehead. Bitch open her mouth like she fin to holler, but her tongue all red and drownin in blood. She put her hands over her face, and her hands change to blood. Then her head fall right offa her neck and go bouncin and rollin down the aisle. You shoulda seen it. Everybody screamin, tryin to jump off the train, wit nowhere to go. Some wacky shit.

The kinda shit this trippy world can put on your brain. And that ain’t the least of it. You’ve heard about the jumpers, the suicides. Well, one time, I was all the way up inna first car, standin there lookin through the head window down on the tracks, seein what the engineer sees. And I see this lady kneelin between the tracks, inna path of the train. She looks up and sees the train bearin down on her. Her eyes get all wide and bright, and she gets that look like, Oh shit, what the fuck am I doin? So she hops up real quick and tries to squeeze her body flat against the tunnel wall so the train will slip right by her. But inna situation like that, you jus can’t slim up and disappear.