Jeffery Allen - Holding Pattern - Stories

Sweat spills, a river inside me. My feet cramped, confined in shoes too stubborn to break. Murder, each step. Hot water rising in my chest, I draw in fire, expel ash. Drop down in roadside dirt. Shut my eyes and try to picture my aunt’s face.

That night, in my hotel room, I attempt to write her a letter. Words reverberate in the air like hummingbirds. I can see it all taking shape. (Sound the trumpets.) I lie back on the bed, hands cupped behind my neck, dirty shoes extended over mattress edge. I stare at the white ceiling until I can see through to the bone, down to the collagen, reflective substance that reveals.

At the complimentary breakfast buffet, I nurse a cup of gritty coffee and munch on wedges of cool watermelon while Dr. Hallard, between hearty crunches of toast and bacon and forkfuls of scrambled eggs, gives me the lowdown on a story he read in the morning paper. Tongue red with strawberry jam, he tells me about a black woman in some remote Florida town who draped her baby’s carriage in the Confederate flag, then camped out before the courthouse. Handcuffed, she is reported to have said, “It’s our history too.”

I leave the hotel to a cyclone of embraces. Promises to call or write. Visit. At the airport, I find a cool seat in a wedge of shadow and wait for the plane to begin boarding. Dressed in identical outfits (white blouse, red vest, and black skirt), three ticket agents — a white woman sandwiched between two black women — power walk down the long lobby, elbows working frantically like clipped bird wings, chattering through labored breaths. The woman closest to me carries a half-empty bottle of water that the three must be sharing. All of us are being transformed into the same image, from one degree of glory to another. They reach the lobby’s end, then circle back the way they came. Five minutes later, they reach the lobby’s end and circle back.

“They kept giving me a hard time. Then somehow it came out that I was a student at the university. You should have seen the looks on their faces. They had a truck bring it all the way from Memphis to Mississippi and everything. Even gave me a discount.”

“Wow.”

“People love that school down here.”

“The Harvard of the South.”

“I’d rather be at Harvard.”

“So, did they throw in a free wadermeln?”

“’Watermelon.’ I’m going to break you out of your country ways.”

“Who’s country? I’m not country. You country.”

“I’m not country.”

“You the one from Memphis.”

“Everybody from Memphis is not country.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Everybody down here doesn’t talk like you.”

“That’s my Mississippi roots.”

“Don’t blame it on Mississippi.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“So you should start—”

“I need to ask you a favor.”

“What?”

“A favor. That’s the main reason I called. Think you could drive over to Fulton and take a few photographs of my aunt’s house?”

“Fulton? I don’t know anything about Fulton.”

“Didn’t say you did. But it’s not that far from you. You must know somebody who knows.”

“Perhaps.”

“Come on.”

“How do you even know the house is still there?”

“It might not be.”

Several years ago, fish farmers brought Asian carp to the Mississippi River to harvest them after flooding had severely reduced the number of catfish and other local species. On their own these carp learned to defy their environment. They jump out of the water, three to four feet into the air, like dolphins and bang into the side of casino ships or fall onto the hook- and worm-crowded decks of low-sided boats. These carp weigh six pounds now but will weigh twenty pounds a year from now. Of course, there is no market for fish that fly.

Pennies rained from heaven in thick dirty color. Penny rain, ringing against parked cars, breaking windshields and windows, bouncing off concrete, rolling into sewers, spinning like plates. Sweat and work: Hatch played off-the-wall with a rubber ball against the ugly ribs of an old school building. In one motion, he caught the ball and shoved it deep into his pants pocket. He stood in the vacant lot and watched the world pass.

Open, coons chased pennies with brown grocery bags, coins cutting through. Coons abandoned their places in the lottery line and pulled at the sky with raised fists. Pennies spilled from windows and doorways. Coons fell from roofs with outstretched hands. Stud coons used they asshole for a purse, and bitch coons they pussy. Disbelief — awe — kept some rooted in shock. Not Boo. He plunged squarely into the business, clawing up coins like a bear fish. Stupid coon , Hatch thought. Never knew how stupid till now. Boo lived in a basement dark, damp, and smelly like a ship’s hold. Once a week Hatch boarded the ship — Ai, mate! Let’s take to the seas, he teased. Hol de win, hol de win, hol de win. Don’t let it blow — and tutored Boo in math and reading. Boo savored the sweetness of strength and gaffled his peers for their lunch money. Every day he ate two big-ass slices of white bread (Hatch liked wheat), two lumps of mayonnaise (Hatch liked Miracle Whip), and two long rolls of pennies. To curry favor and keep Boo from beating his ass, Hatch had taught him this penny sandwich. Save for the future, he said. You’ll always have something in your stomach.

Save. He bagged and transported groceries for Hi-Lo Foods. Seven, he earned a third of a man’s salary but could outthink anybody thirty times his size and thirty-three times his age.

Boo was at the other end of the vacant lot, open mouth aimed at the sky. He swallowed his fill of pennies, full to the stitches like the Pillsbury Doughboy, then headed home, slow and heavy. Vomiting pennies, shitting pennies, pissing copper.

Old ladies ran out the stained-glass doors of the Ambassadors for Church of God in Christ, the Elder Milton Oliver, pastor. (They sat on pews all day, hoping to levitate the building with their waving fans.)

If coons are this worked up, surely the white folks downtown must be really showing out. Hell, I ain’t gon chase no pennies. Be rich someday. His confidence was grounded in a structural vision. Heaven, Incorporated. Try Jesus — You’ll Like Him. Dial 1-800-OMYLORD and talk to Jesus directly. (Free blessing with every call!) Five hundred dollars will buy you a train ticket to heaven. One-time offer. Fifty dollars for your key to the kingdom (twenty-four-karet gold). One-hundred-dollar yearly membership for the Angel Club. (Purchase your wings first! Available in nylon, satin, and silk. White or off-white.) Twenty-five dollars to reserve your bed in the upper room. He would build big-ass churches the size of football stadiums, rising on every street, on every corner, in every neighborhood. Churches as big as cities rising above county, state, and country. Hell, I might even put some on the moon. Hire me the best preachers: Sterling Pickens of the First Baptist Multimedia Church, Rich “Ducats” Allen (Lay de foundation; build a home in dat rock; lift up this hammer; Gawd’ll put you to work), Stallion Blade (It ain’t bout the salary, it’s all bout reality). Five-dollar cover charge or ten-thousand-dollar yearly membership. Bucket-deep collection plates. Yes, I’m gon be all money someday. Head as flat as a dime. Diamond fingernails. Jeweled three-ton suit. Gold cane, fat like an elephant’s dick. Clockin dollars.

Knuckles, pennies punched through faces. Dragon’s teeth, chewed-up hands and feet. Sprayed brownstones clean. Leveled new houses and coppered old ones with squat layered covering like the shells of armored trucks.