Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

You back-talkin me?

No, ma’am.

Then get out there and do what I told you to do.

I would prefer not to.

What? Get! She shoved him, stumbling, out the door. Stood looking at Sheila. What are you standing there for? Go wit him.

It was a day of filtered sunshine, half-cloud, half-sun. Chitlin Sandwich waited before the gray mass of the building. Chitlin Sandwich, waiting. Dark, red, sparkling, the child of unmothering and unfathering deeps. Anyone even remotely connected with the Abraham Lincoln Elementary School knew that his mamma dressed him from the Goodwill. She ran the streets in glossy hip huggers, a new man on her arm every week, and she aided and supported two grown brothers, Snake and Lake, criminals in hiding, pursued. She cooked every Sunday and used the leftovers for the remainder of the week. Her specialty was the chitlin sandwich: chitlins on white bread with hot sauce, onions, lettuce, pickles, and tomatoes. Chitlin rose a full three inches over the tallest kid in the neighborhood. (Perhaps the sandwiches fed his strange growth and behavior.) Feared, he was also called upon, since he instinctively understood electronics. He could repair a toaster and a computer, a television and a cellular phone, with equal ease. Word had it he never used tools.

Chitlin walked, the hinged arms and legs of a cardboard Halloween skeleton. Hatch closed his eyes and whirled both potsherds. One caught Chitlin — he made no attempt to defend himself — squarely behind the earlobe. Hatch opened his eyes to red sight. He ran back into the courtyard. Halted beside Sheila. She knew what he was thinking: stand his ground or answer to Mamma.

Chitlin crossed the street for Stonewall, blood trickling between fingers stopping his wound. He did not hurry. Steady and calm. Sheila watched from the courtyard, drawn by the clean power of curiosity. She had never seen such stoicism and determination in a child. She caught one last glimpse of him before Stonewall swallowed him.

Did you see that? she said.

See what?

Did you see that?

He bleedin. He gon beat me up.

You didn’t see it? As her brother’s fear weighed on her, Chitlin Sandwich reappeared, walking with swift firm steps, dragging with one hand some object that scraped the concrete behind him like a fallen muffler. She held up one hand to block the sun so that she could see better, but there was no light to block. Sight improved as he came closer. She felt a violent knocking in her stomach, neither fear nor anger. Comic disbelief.

That Chitlin Sandwich got a sword.

What?

Look.

The sword was better than three feet long, the dark brown handle embedded with tiny red stones like mosquito bites. The blade itself was even sicker, with pockets of rust like sores on a mangy dog. Boy and sword were less than a yard away now. She burst out in a spasm of giggles.

Look at that ole silly sword!

Hatch tripped over his own feet making it behind her. He encircled her waist with his arms and hugged her tightly. He gon cut me up! Don’t let him cut me up. I’m sorry, Chitlin! He peeped out from around her waist.

Let me go. She tried to shake him loose. Couldn’t. He ain’t gon cut nobody.

Using both hands Chitlin raised the sword above his head like a sledgehammer and brought it wildly down onto the sidewalk. She was too swift, even with Hatch hugging her waist. A taste of gall rose up inside her. She pried Hatch loose. Chitlin readied the sword. She ran right up to him and punched him in the face. He fell straight backward, a domino, and narrowed the concrete.

The sword fell. Clanged. Nothing moved. Silence. Time.

Why you hit my baby! A lady under a helmet of pink curlers was running toward Sheila from across the street. She moved with incredible speed, flabby thighs bouncing and balancing on skinny bird calves. Why you hit my baby! Black dots peeped through her faded green T-shirt — cut above the navel — and pubic hair crept up her belly over blue jean shorts, panty small and tight.

Yo, Slim, someone yelled. People were hanging out windows, watching from the playground.

Tell her, Shorty.

Yall, get it on.

Party time.

You ain’t got no business puttin yo hands on my child, the bird-slut said, close now.

How’d you like me to punch you?

You ain’t gon punch nobody.

Sheila looked over her shoulder. Mamma. Malice. Still and angry in red house slippers, her hand on something inside the pocket of the flowered housecoat. She’d snapped in her dentures. Hatch was gripping her free hand with both of his.

Hey, there go another bitch.

This should be good.

Word.

Gon, party, ladies.

The bird-slut fixed Mamma with a hard cold squint. Mamma watched her back. Chitlin Sandwich managed to raise himself on shaky legs. Then he dropped back to the sidewalk, cartoonlike, as if his bones had been liquefied.

The bird-slut trained her eyes on him.

Sheila, get yo behind over here.

Sheila obeyed Mamma’s order.

Mamma and the bird-slut stood there, eternally, it seemed, and traded cold stares, eyes flicking.

I don’t think no hittin will be necessary, Mamma said.

Mother Chitlin made no response.

I tell you what: since our children can’t play together, we gon keep them apart.

Fine wit me. The bird-slut leaned from one thin leg to the other.

Mamma eyed Hatch. Now, he ain’t gon play wit you, and if I find you playin wit him, I’m gon beat yo ass.

Yes’m.

Chitlin, get up from there.

Now, if he bother you, come see me.

Yes’m.

Chitlin!

In one motion Chitlin Sandwich arced to his feet, fast and stiff, like a stepped-on broom.

Get yo sword.

He retrieved the sword.

Mamma stiffened. Hatch lowered his head. Chitlin staggered over to the bird-slut, his shirt collar soaked with blood. He watched Sheila, his powerful will packed into his stare.

You heard what she said. The bird-slut eyed him, her voice unfaltering. He ain’t gon play wit you, and you ain’t gon play wit him. Find you some new friends.

Chitlin watched Sheila. The slut snatched him around. They started across the street, the sword dragging behind, sparks showering, crowd parting. He swirled round on one foot and shook his fist at Sheila, slow and stiff. She rolled her eyes. The slut snatched him forward. He craned his bloody neck and threw his eyes back over his shoulder at Sheila. The bird-slut slapped him upside the head.

A week later Sheila watched the Stonewall playground through the all-knowing third story picture window. Swing set. Two small figures at either end. Vast space between them. Chitlin Sandwich swinging in one direction, Hatch swinging in the other. That thing is done, Mamma said. But, Mamma … I saw them. I—

Stop botherin me. That thing is done.

She braked suddenly to avoid tail-ending the car in front of her.

Hey, lady. Don’t you know how to drive?

Do yo mamma! She cursed softly. Put her mean foot on the gas like the pedal was a roach. Jerk! Saying it out loud.

Bubbled in, she drove, all silence and substance. Random contact these past seven years. Casual mentions: Hey, you remember Chitlin Sandwich from the old hood? Well, I ran into him at … Oh, guess what. I bumped into Chitlin Sandwich at … Listen to this. I saw Chitlin Sandwich at … Easily explained, perhaps. (Similar circles: Hatch was a musician — he plunked away for hours at a time, his slow clumsy fingers moving on the strings like earthworms — and Chitlin a producer, an engineer, a technician, a stage manager, and a promoter, in local music circles, and the CEO of Green Wig Productions.) Easily explained but for recent signs denoting more.

Hatch on the corner. Awaiting her arrival. White Jaguar pulling away from the corner. Slow, taking its time … Hatch passing through a fenced-in (caged) basketball court. Shapely guitar case like a sarcophagus at his side. White Jaguar slowing down to greet him.