Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

Twenty feet ahead he spotted a familiar figure trudging through the snow toward him. He stuck his hands back into the slushy mounds and worked more frantically after the keys. Heard the snow-crunching approach of the two young officers behind him. Looked up and turned his head to see them bobbing forward with pistols drawn. Had they misinterpreted the direction and meaning of his submerged and sweeping hands, mistaking purposeful search for beckoning wave? He thought to shout, “The keys! I dropped the keys!” Burrowing down, trenched in this place, which had already started to corrode beneath him, melt and puddle around his knees.

Down in the alley, Chitlin Sandwich sat wide-legged on a fifteen-speed racer, fifteen himself, a schoolboy, dressed like somebody’s granddaddy, a wide fedora slanted across his face, his tall skinny frame entombed in a wide double-breasted blazer, a diamond pin centered in a fat red and green polka-dot tie, flashy argyle socks, peeking above two-tone patent-leather shoes, like two shiny puddles of mud beneath his cuffed and pleated baggy slacks. He was sipping from a can wrapped in a brown paper bag and drumming his fingers on a burlap newspaper sack that hung over one shoulder. Sheila was certain that the bike belonged to Hatch — her little brother — or that it was an exact replica, its twin. She pressed her face hard to the window glass and cut her eyes at him. He regarded her with frank indifference, as still as an owl. Then he tilted the bag and drank long and deep. She felt hot anger rising and spreading throughout her face, elongating fingers of flames. His diamond tie pin caught the sunlight. He took one final gulp, crushed the wrapped can like a mosquito between both hands, and sent it clattering over his shoulder, into an open trash barrel. He pulled a Daily Chronicle from the burlap sack, drew back his arm like a pitcher, only to toss the newspaper underhanded, like a softball. It soared in early-morning air and plopped like a dead bird onto Sheila’s porch, inches from her window. A spasm of rage gripped her throat. I’m twenty-four and educated and the assistant human-resources manager at the growing East Shore Bank, and I will not put up with this. She went out onto the porch.

You’re lucky that didn’t hit my window, she said, fists clenched at her sides.

Ain’t nobody tryin to hit yo window.

What are you doing here in the first place?

He narrowed his cunning eyes and grinned. Only later would she realize that this was the first time she had seen him mirthful in seven years. Can’t you see? Here to delivery yo paper, baby.

Look, I don’t play. She swallowed, breathing more easily now. If you want to play, go to a school yard.

His eyes flared up with hate.

Shoo, boy. Shoo! Her hands brushed at him, brushed him away, dirt.

He started off on the racer, his eyes looking back at her. I’ll be seein you, ba-by! He blew her a kiss.

She exploded. Felt her hair singe and crackle. Boy, I’ll slap the shit out of you! She started down the porch steps.

His eyes glinted with rage. Pedaling, bike and boy disappeared.

That’s right. You better run.

She turned back up the steps and went into her apartment. Paced the room. In her anger, she had forgotten to confront him about the bike. She had purchased a red fifteen-speed Zurbo Turbo Urban Assault professional racer a week ago as a gift for Hatch when she learned that Lucky Green’s Groceries had hired him as a delivery boy — his first job. She was excited that at age fifteen he had finally set his athletic-shoed feet on the road to maturity. Now Chitlin was riding the bike.

She halted. Composed herself for work. One must be prompt. She moved into the bedroom, checked herself in the mirror, liked what she saw. Long black braids with neatly spaced colored beads flowed away from her brown face, down to her nape, trawl lines on night water. A gray knee-length dress fit close on her tight and toned curves. I will marry when I find the right man. The thought died as suddenly as it had arisen.

She quit her apartment, secured all six locks, and descended scrubbed stone porch steps — feeling both nimble and heavy — as if drawn by some force beneath the grassy lawn. She made her way down a short cement path to a speared wrought-iron fence and gazed out at the quiet streets, geometric lawns and hedges, prim flats (like her own), and houses of North Shore — gazed, searching for signs of Chitlin Sandwich. Nothing stirred. Disappointed, she opened the fence, closed it firmly behind her, and walked the few feet to her lime-colored Datsun 280ZX. Got behind the wheel. She was tempted to search for Chitlin Sandwich, but the bank came first. The groan of ignition. She handled keys, gears, and buttons with the skill of an astronaut.

Eased the car onto the highway. Watched the road through the windshield, and the windshield watched her back. Thinking about her brother, buried reflections. Fifteen years ago, Mamma had gotten so disgusted with fat greedy chicken-eatin wing-robed preachers (with each word, shout, hum, and grunt of his Sunday sermon, Reverend Ransom had examined her with knowing eyes) that she stopped attending church altogether. A ghost began to plague her family. He would nibble Sheila’s toes or fart above her bed — anything to prevent her from sleeping. She grew restless and dizzy. Bumped into objects like a spun cat. The ghost made comical faces whenever she sat on the toilet. But he soon tired of these games, tired of Sheila, and began to frequent Mamma at night, singing low-down blues all the while. (His blues-toned laughter still ruled her dreams.) Mamma found both prayer and potions ineffective. She sought the advice of her medium, who suggested that she change the direction of her bed. This worked. Then her belly began to round. Nine months later the ghost made a final appearance. He hot-wired a car, drove Mamma to the Cedar Sake Hospital, and set her down on the curb outside the emergency room. One hour later Hatch came quietly into the world.

You haven’t finished them files yet? Petite, smooth, and beautiful, a fairy, Angela spoke from the opposite desk. Files were scattered over Sheila’s desk like stones from a felled wall.

I’ll have them done by the end of the week.

I hope so.

Yeah, girlfriend. Niece spoke from the desk to the right of Sheila. She was as dark as a tree trunk and just as round and promising. Angela on her left, Niece on her right, and Sheila trapped between them. Better hurry up. You only got two days.

Two days is plenty of time.

If you say so.

I say so.

She don’t know what she sayin.

Sheila trained her eyes on an application and read it a third time.

You sure are sluggish this mornin, Angela said. Why you so slow this mornin?

Oh, that big strong long man musta kept her up last night.

Niece and Angela shared a foul laugh.

Lift both yall minds outta the gutter.

Nawl. Why don’t you come down here wit us.

You wish.

The three women worked in silence for some time.

We’re going to have dinner after the demonstration Saturday, Angela said. Maybe do some dancing.

Where?

Frank told me to ask you.

Let me think about it.

How bout the Sugar Shack? Niece suggested.

That new club?

Yeah. Dinner, dance, drinks, dudes. All a good girl need. Niece flicked her tongue fast and nasty.

The car rocked roughly over some potholes. Roofs lay in a crazy jigsaw against the sky. South Shore was a decent neighborhood, but Sheila searched long and hard to find a parking space in sight of Mamma’s living room window. She roared into the spot like a professional test driver and quit the engine. All had gone well at work. Troubled, preoccupied, she wondered at the upheaval. Disorder. She had decided to visit Mamma and report the morning’s events, even if her words fell on deaf ears.