Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

As in olden times, so now. But why had Chitlin Sandwich suddenly launched an open assault, after years of latent wickedness? Mindful of traffic, she snatched her cell phone and pinned it between her raised shoulder and slanted ear. The loud electric buzz taunted her, raising doubt, mocking her effort. Should she call Mamma? Could she awaken her? Were her ears willing?

Hey, Mamma. It’s me.

Hey, daughter.

What you doin?

Nothin. Jus gettin ready fo bed.

Where Hatch?

In there wit that guitar of his. I made him put on those headphones. I ain’t tryin to hear that noise.

He never stops.

Does a thief?

She is thinking about what to say. You know, I need to tell you something.

What’s that?

Well, you know …

Go ahead.

It’s very important. Very very important.

Jus tell me.

Well, Mamma … you got to do something about Hatch and that Chitlin Sandwich.

What?

You know, Chitlin Sandwich.

Who?

Chitlin Sandwich. You remember him. From Stonewall. Him and his nasty low-life mother.

Why are you bringing all that up? Cause I saw—

I mean, that was a long time ago. How many years has that been now?

But you don’t understand. I saw—

Didn’t I say I’m through wit all that? Why can’t you listen? Did I not say that I’m through wit all that?

Sheila hung up the buzzing powerless phone. It was a matter of great sorrow that Mamma could be so naive about the clandestine friendship between Chitlin and Hatch. Left to her care, Hatch’s low-flaming soul would evaporate through his skin. She did not understand the resilient life of evil. Snakes keep a reserved set of fangs. But, given charge, she would set things right.

She honked a car from her path.

She was fording a river of steaming greens. Hard bacon, stone under her feet. She rose with the river. Air. She was a green wasp flying through sweet heat. She smoothly landed on a wide tree trunk. Disemboweled it with her stinger. Green viny guts exploded from the tree’s solid interior like coiled toy snakes. Extended in all directions — trails, tracks, traces.

Advice from the wise: slice them pies.

Yeah. Get all you can get. And then some.

That’s why Frank and I are saving all our money to open up this coffee shop. Angela licked a gum-backed stamp, then thumbed it onto a long envelope. It’s gon be the bomb. Computer surfing. Highspeed internet and an iPod room. Virtual-reality room. Game room. DVD room. Pool room. Chess room. You name it. And a good old-fashioned coffee shop and some slammin good coffee.

Sounds good, Sheila said. She grabbed a file and spread its contents on the desk before her.

You should invest.

I’ll think about it. Let me think about it.

I’ll invest, Niece said.

You ain’t got no money.

Niece grinned, proud.

I don’t believe it, Sheila said. Sight surprised.

What?

He wouldn’t.

What?

No!

Girl, what?

Out in the main banking area, a teller passed Chitlin Sandwich a stack of crisp bills across a marble counter. Have a nice day. Smiled. He did not move from the window. He stood counting the bills, slow and careful.

Chitlin Sandwich.

Chitlin who?

Where?

Counting done, he slipped the bills inside his blazer, near his heart. Turned and saw Sheila and the other two women watching him. He walked in their direction, casual and unconcerned.

He better not!

Who?

What’s going on?

He stopped before the glass door that opened into their office and stood there sullenly, watching Sheila. He was so tall that he would need to stoop under the door frame to enter. His wide baggy suit could not hide his puny body. No muscle. His bones lay loosely in his flesh. He studied Sheila a moment longer and moved on.

Who was that?

Nobody.

Call him back, Niece said. He kinda cute.

Girl, can’t you tell? He’s jus a boy.

Don’t matter to me. Them young boys never get tired.

You know him?

Not really. Sheila pulled up his account on her computer.

Girl, what you doing? You better finish those files.

I’ll get to them. In a minute.

So, you still coming to the march Saturday? Angela snapped for the waiter.

Yes. Sheila veiled her knees with a green cloth napkin.

Good.

You know I’m coming, Niece said. And you better introduce me to some men. I like the political type.

Girl, please. A towel would get you wet.

Niece grinned. Proud.

The waiter arrived, leather-covered pad and pen at the ready. How are you ladies this afternoon?

Fine. Angela spoke for all of them.

Something to drink?

I’ll take the house wine. White.

He wrote on his pad.

Me too, Niece said. Red.

And you, madam?

Zinfandel.

Had he asked Sheila a second or two later, she would have muttered Shit. Chitlin Sandwich was lunching — broiled lamb and asparagus — alone at a large round draped table, four green triangular edges of tablecloth aimed like arrows at the carpeted floor.

Who you lookin at?

She didn’t let on. Nobody.

And you, madam?

She sneaked a peek and caught Chitlin Sandwich blowing her a kiss.

Give me dark. Your best.

She wheeled the caged cart and placed the items she needed inside it. She had not been shopping long, when she heard him lewdly cracking his knuckles in the next aisle.

The nexus of speakers blasted out the current chart buster, “Dating Mr. D.,” the brainchild of the crunk group Uranium 235.

Saw the death of billions

what could I do?

Sent a message to you punks and bitches

couldn’t get through

From her recessed booth she watched dancers shake their hips, little space between the bodies. She shook her head, astonished. How can they dance to this music? Rowdy. She finished her Pepsi. It was hot in her throat, then hot in her stomach. She had been in Salamanders a good hour, having entered it on the lookout, wheeling her eyes about. Her first time. Angela and Niece came here often, but she had always refused to follow. Too loud. Too many young fools. And that dim eye-hurting light. But purpose had drawn her here tonight.

She would bypass Mamma and attack the evil at its source. She had only a dim idea how. But her love for her family would serve as both her dagger and her shield.

These were the last dances before the live music. Sound Productions was scheduled to appear at nine o’clock, ten minutes from now. A small stage had been erected perpendicular to the dance area and parallel to the bar, but the band had yet to appear and set up its equipment.

A black couple — young man, older woman — entered, attached to each other’s waists, laughing and keeping time to the music. The woman pointed (with pride? curiosity?) to the stage. The man nodded. They danced their way to the bar, found stools, and ordered drinks. Silver pants, the lady’s big horse behind, spread over the bar stool. They sipped their drinks quietly, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman set down her glass, flicked its edge with her finger, then leaned over and kissed the man on the tip of his ear. Mouth close, he whispered something. Her soft laugh floated back. She pulled firmly at his tie. Sheila fumbled with her empty glass. The lady turned her head and looked Sheila full in the face. Her shining eyes seemed to come straight at their target.

Sheila took cover behind her raised hand. Yes. Recognize her anywhere. That’s Chitlin Sandwich’s mother. The bird-slut.

Sheila lowered her hand and turned her eyes to the dance floor, jammed with waving arms, wiggling bottoms, and shuffling feet. The speakers blared “Tea with Mr. B.” by the Sam Hill Roughriders.

O woman with a sky in yo thigh