Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

O bitch wit that dip in yo hips

O woman wit yo ass way up high

O bitch wit those dick lips

Call me Mr. B.

Jump my bone bone

Call me Mr. B.

Bone Bone

Come over to my palatial home

Put that high ass way up on my throne

And let me jump them bones

The floor lit now by clicking light, and the dancers showing up — green, black, green, black — beneath it.

At nine o’clock the music abruptly ceased, and a dapper and nervous announcer took the stage. Look, I’m sorry, folks, but our scheduled band won’t be appearing tonight.

The interrupted dancers seemed indifferent.

A traffic jam or something. Sorry. Drinks on the house.

I am the light, I am the load. Skee-dee-skee-dop-ba-du-re-bop-pop-mop-shop-pow! I am the light. I am the load. Skee-dee-slop-pop-be-hop-dop-pow! Born of the cross, birthed on the cross. Died in the bush, dead in the bush. Push. Push. Dead in the bush, red in the push. Gush. Gush. Skee-bop-zop-uh-pow! I am the light, I am the load.

There, in the solitude of her bedroom, she took the phone, the numbers blinking square light in the dark. She put the phone back. Out of her hands now. The simple necessity of faith.

Guess who went to the doctor?

Niece, not again?

Uh-huh. Niece closed her eyes with a wide grin.

So how many will that make? Four?

Five.

You should be ashamed.

Alone on the sofa, in her apartment, Sheila did not share what she was thinking. She had not done so the entire evening.

I already told Frank I ain’t never havin no babies. He ain’t gon stretch out my coochie. Though married, Angela was fond of a halter and miniskirt and stockingless legs, fond of long strings of pearls that hung from her neck to her knees and a cloche hat that hid her eyebrows.

You can have a Caesarean, Niece said. A bikini cut.

Ain’t nobody cuttin me.

They put you under. And they only cut you a little.

No way. Angela shook her head slowly, like a wronged child.

It’s simple.

Simple or not simple, ain’t nobody takin my boo-boop-a-doop away.

From the couch, Niece kicked her meaty legs in laughter. What about you, Sheila?

Yeah. How come you ain’t sayin nothin?

I’m listenin, that’s all. Nothing to say.

Bat got yo tongue?

Question. Niece squeezed her face into a serious expression. Do you know how to Mexican-kiss?

Don’t ask her that. You know she saved.

I never said that. When did you hear me—

Saved. Saved. Angela clapped her hands and made a song of it.

I’m saved too. Niece tongued her lips.

Many evenings like this. Shades open. A cold wash of stars. Niece had reported her latest fuck while Angela demonstrated the latest dance. Sheila watched them now with flying longing and compassion, for she saw deeper than they could see, deeper, to the indestructible element.

I think Mr. So-and-So at work got a crush on you.

Not on me. You.

Speakin of work, why you ain’t finish those files?

I know. I should have.

Well, why didn’t you? Gon be hell to pay come Monday morning.

I ain’t worried.

You should be.

Sheila pulled her knees to her chin and chest. She sat, silent, and wondering, and staring into the night.

Let’s wait a little while longer. (Frank Poor was squat.) We’ll be moving along shortly. (No taller than Angela.) No need to rush. (Shorter, perhaps.) We should have a good turnout. (His potbelly—) A thousand people. (—drooping, anchoring him to the earth.) Or more. (Darker than her, black and shiny, like a button.) We did extensive canvassing. (He published his own newspaper, Make the Rich Pay! ) In fact, did some last-minute canvassing last night. (Taught fire walking on the weekends.) Is this your first?

No, Sheila lied. She had once given to the NAACP. (Or was it the United Negro College Fund?) All told, this was the extent of her political involvement.

Welcome.

Glad to be here.

Fifteen or twenty people formed a broken lopsided sphere on the road. Dressed in athletic gear, as if prepared to run a marathon. Sheila: clothed in the extremity of summer color. Her shoes new and enduring. They patiently waited, conversing, exchanging victories and defeats, tales brought to life again. Sheila listened to it all, speaking when spoken to.

Glad you came out.

Glad you could make it.

She felt her anxiety lift. The touch of harmony.

Play this one by ear. Frank roused the group. Don’t think about past experiences. Every leaf is different. Let’s remember what we are here to do today.

She joined the line, in military formation. Allowed herself to be propelled forward. Posters waving.

The sky was clear after a morning rain. Beads of water glistened in the rain-washed road. Both sides of the road lined with thickly leaved trees, green and still heavy with rain, their top branches and boughs tangled in the sky.

The people!

United!

Shall never be defeated!

The people!

United!

Shall never be defeated!

Spectators, white and black and otherwise, came out to observe the procession. Laughed and shook their heads as if at some corny circus act.

The hallmark of stupidity. Frank frowned. This nation was founded by men who hid behind barns, and smoked corn silk. And if those lumberjacks — he nodded — are any indication, this is still a country with shit in its boots.

Some ways down the road, Chitlin Sandwich stood in the driveway of Bingo Bob’s Car Repair. Chitlin Sandwich. The stiff brooding materiality of youth.

Hey, ain’t that the boy who was at the bank?

Yeah. What’s his name? Pig Ear Sandwich?

Nawl. Pig Feet.

Fedora pushed back on his head. Stooped, his knees jutting out from under his body. Thick-winged eyebrows that seemed to be drawn down by his open mouth. Heavy eyelids, narrow light in the pupils. His dark (gray? blue?) blazer draped over one crooked arm, while the fingers of the free hand toyed with a gold watch chained — half-loop — to his vest. Sunlight and a diamond tie pin. Sunlight and patent-leather shoes.

Just left of Chitlin Sandwich, a small boy emerged from the shop and climbed atop the white Jaguar fender to get a better view of the procession. Chitlin gave the child a hard look. Grabbed him, lifted him off the fender, kicked him swiftly in the rear, and shoved him back into the shop. That done, he turned and shook his fist at Sheila.

She made no response. She would not give him the satisfaction. Hatch was no longer part of him now. A cool breeze blew from the trees and carried the smell of damp earth and leaves. Set branches moving and covered the road with long flickering shadows.

They crested a hill. Niece dropped behind to seek Man. Sheila found it fitting, elemental. The shrouded road wound off before her, almost lost among the dark trees. Footfalls peppered the silence. Now a new faint noise. She stopped and turned. The white Jaguar descended the hill like a fly down a distended belly. She continued.

She followed the white Jaguar’s progress by the roar of its approaching engine. She did not turn to look. She was tough, tougher than expectation.

Air punched her skin. She turned to see Niece rise, rocketlike, into the sky, only to have gravity snatch her rudely back to earth. Before she made impact, her male companion catapulted into the air, a clay pigeon. A scream awakened those standing still in disbelief. Frank tackled Angela into the roadside ditch. Others sought quick refuge in the ditch or farther, in the forest itself. Sheila dropped and rolled, her face buried in tufts of grass. The white Jaguar sped past with a hot gust of wind, spraying dirt and gravel like buckshot into the ditch and leaving behind the smell of hot metal and gasoline. White exhaust fanned and covered the road, phosphorous.