Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

He studied her back. She was butt ugly. A net of wrinkles drew her skin tight. Her dark face masklike, coated with rouge. A flat pug nose some fist had mashed in. And long protruding jaws and lips, like a stork’s mouth. Nothing baby about her face. Nothing. Thinking this, he was forced to admit that she had pretty eyes. Green.

Come give your granny a hug, she said. Spread her arms wide. He didn’t move. She bent down and hugged him tight, forcing his constricted lungs to breathe in her perfume. Strawberry pop. He didn’t like strawberry pop.

She released him and rose back to her full height.

Where’s your other suitcases? he asked. Mamma pinched him. She only pinched; she would never strike him. She’d had two stillbirths; he was her only child.

What? Blunt asked.

Where’s your other suitcases? Mamma pinched him again. If you’re coming to live with us, then where’s your other suitcases? You can’t put nothing in no one suitcase.

Blunt gave him a fierce cold look, eyelashes so stiff with mascara, they resembled tiny claws. Now, you’re a smart little boy, so you know I’m having the rest of my things shipped.

I don’t know nothing.

Mamma looked at him, hard. Blunt green-watched him. Such a pity. You look so cute in that snowsuit.

They left the station for the taxi stand. A storm had set in; snow sprayed his face, white, wet, and cold. Blunt walked over to the lead cab, a fat yellow block, and roused the driver, a short man with short thick legs.

How you today, ma’am?

Just fine, Blunt said.

The driver placed her white suitcase inside the yellow trunk.

She opened the passenger door, slid the guitar case on the floor, then held the door wide. Mamma motioned for Hatch to get in. He did. She followed. Blunt held her hat with one hand, ducked inside the cab, and seated herself. Mamma hadn’t held her own hat. Blunt shut the door. The motor roared to life. The driver slammed the taxi into gear. Where to?

Mamma told him.

Enjoy your ride.

They rode to the dull hum of the busy engine, the heat full blast, Hatch damp, his body boiling inside the meaty snowsuit. He studied Blunt’s reflection in the driver’s rearview mirror. She sat very stiff, green eyes staring straight ahead. Glad that he didn’t have to sit next to her.

Easy motion and casual heat, they cruised in bubbled metal. No one moved. No one spoke. Three monkeys, deaf, mute, and blind. They rode on past Hatch’s school, Andrew Carnegie Elementary. Mamma gestured to Blunt. Blunt nodded and smiled. Traffic started to thicken. The driver took cautionary measures, dodging around the El’s pylons, only to get pinned between a pylon and some stalled cars.

Move this thing, sir, Blunt said.

I’m doin all I can, ma’am.

Well, move it.

I’m sure we’ll be moving soon, Blunt, Mamma said.

Look, I’m paying you good money! Blunt watched the driver with her green eyes.

This will go much better if we all jus relax, the driver said.

Hatch peered through the frosty cab window. Thickly clothed people hurried by with their heads tucked against slanting wind and snow. Sheltered inside a doorway, a musician vied for attention. He was seated on a footstool, acoustic guitar angled across his body, strumming the strings and tapping an athletic shoed foot, an empty coffee can a few feet in front of him. His voice rose above snarling traffic and honking horns.

If you don’t wanna get down wit me

You can’t sit under my apple tree

Say, if you don’t wanna get—

One passerby tossed him a coin. Hatch felt all twisted inside. He caught Blunt’s face in the rearview mirror. She too was watching the musician, effort in her looking. All the anger seemed to have left her. She saw Hatch seeing her and gave him an icy look.

She faced the driver. Driver, get this cab moving, she said.

He did, foot on the accelerator to race down lost time. The Progressive Funeral Home soon blinked by. Against Hatch’s expectations, both Mamma and Blunt sat oblivious. He grunted. That Blunt! She ain’t look at it cause she don’t want me to know she ain’t nothin but a phony.

They braked to a quick stop, bodies thrown forward and back. Blunt pulled rolled bills from a jumpsuit pocket, unfolded them, and licked her thumb and forefinger to catch the crispy edges. She paid the driver and tipped him five dollars. You don’t deserve a tip, she said.

He smiled. Thanks anyway, ma’am. I’m gon get yo suitcase from the trunk.

Mamma frowned at his vocabulary.

Only if you’re capable, Blunt said.

He’s using that countrified language, Hatch said. The driver shot Hatch a glance. Mamma pinched him. But he speakin street. Mamma pinched him again. Stung, Hatch’s arm was hot and hurt in the snowsuit. Hand on the door handle, he tried to make a quick exit. The door refused to budge. Frozen, perhaps. Blunt leaned across Mamma and opened it. She smiled. Hatch gave her a mean look.

They quit the cab, snow crunching underfoot. The short driver hoisted the suitcase from the trunk while Blunt pulled the guitar case from the floor.

All y’all have a nice day, the driver said. He shot Hatch another glance and grinned.

Mamma shook her head at the diction. Hatch gave the driver his meanest look.

Blunt passed the driver another five-dollar bill. Learn how to drive, she said.

Yes, ma’am. Thank you. He got inside the cab and sped off.

Three flights of stairs spiraled a challenge to the apartment above. Mamma started up, Blunt following — the suitcase in one hand, the guitar case in the other — and Hatch following her. At the top landing, Mamma leaned her tired weight on the banister, sucking for air. Seem like the fourth floor, she said. Blunt said nothing. Chest rising slow and easy. Hatch believed himself an excellent judge of age and had concluded that Blunt was very old — she was so ugly — but, having witnessed her feat on the stairs, he was now uncertain.

You got a nice apartment, Joy. She looked the kitchen over with her green eyes.

Thank you, Blunt. It’s small but comfortable.

Well, don’t you worry about that.

Mamma smiled.

Would you like some breakfast?

I sure would. Where do you keep your pans?

No. You must be tired from your trip. She lowered her eyes. Do you eat meat?

Blunt looked Mamma full in the face. Yes, Joy.

Well, let me show you to your room.

My room , Hatch thought. He was shaking, either from cold or heat — he couldn’t tell — his arm still hot from the pinch.

Mamma looked at him. Go into the bathroom and get out of that snowsuit. She and Blunt started for Hatch’s room. He watched them.

Joy, let Hatch keep me company. Blunt stopped her body like a truck and waited for a response.

Mamma didn’t say anything for a moment. She turned and looked at Hatch. Hatch, hurry out of that snowsuit and come keep Blunt company.

Hatch watched Blunt, hard. Wind and snow had smeared the makeup around her eyes, the talon streaks of some huge bird.

Mamma came forward and gripped his hand. Be good, she whispered. Don’t be mean and selfish like your father. She had been frank about his father. Normally, these words about his bad father would have settled him. He struggled to free his hand.

Be good, Mamma said.

He knew she would not hit him. No matter how angry she became. Mind working, he stared through the distance at Blunt. Formed a plan. He would pretend he liked Blunt. Alone with her, he would give her a piece of his mind. Choice words. All right, he said.

Mamma gave him a hard look that said, Be good. She pushed open one of the French doors that separated her room from his, then headed for the kitchen.