Holding Pattern Read online

  Be good, Mamma said.

  He knew she would not hit him. No matter how angry she became. Mind working, he stared through the distance at Blunt. Formed a plan. He would pretend he liked Blunt. Alone with her, he would give her a piece of his mind. Choice words. All right, he said.

  Mamma gave him a hard look that said, Be good. She pushed open one of the French doors that separated her room from his, then headed for the kitchen.

  Hello, Hatch, Blunt said.

  Hello, Blunt.

  Blunt removed her coat and hung it in the closet. Her arms were thick inside the sleeves of the red jumpsuit. She removed her hat before the dresser mirror, intent on her reflection. Hair spilled gray and long about her shoulders. With her back to him, she began unpacking the one suitcase, now open on the bed. She turned and smiled. Hummed low deep waters in her throat. You can’t fool me, he thought. Puffy in his snowsuit, he watched her unpack and searched for the correct way to phrase what he wanted to say.

  I mean, all that happened twenty-five, thirty, years ago. Blunt chased him out of town with her straight razor. Red, they called him, though I never saw him myself. Clay colored. Bowlegged. A midget. A bad man. Like your father.

  Blunt kept his ten-dollar Sears Roebuck guitar and taught herself how to play it.

  Then Blunt married the preacher-mortician. I was ten by this time. They’d known each other all along. We moved into his funeral home. It was like a castle, enough rooms to sleep fifty people. Plenty places to wander and get lost.

  The preacher always spoke his mind. Children make me nervous. This is what he said. I got a bad heart, and people like me, with bad hearts, also have bad nerves, if you see my meaning. I did. So I kept fifteen feet away from him. Fifteen feet. Measured it.

  He was the most disliked colored man in the Rains County. He kept a stable full of horses he had never learned to ride. (His bad heart.) And he had dainty ways like white folks. Always wore a suit and tie in the blazing heat, and walked with his head up high, and breathed like a rusty well pump, and sweated like a fountain. He would place his napkin in his lap when he ate and sweat down into it. He had been in a car accident that scarred up his face pretty bad. (You should have seen it. Unbelievable.) And he never ate meat, since it aggravated his scars. This is what he said: God saw to it to give me the accident, and with it, scars and a bad heart.

  The accident had given him the calling to be a preacher, but his sermons put people to sleep. (Christ is fire and water insurance!) That was what led him into the mortuary business. Preachers must eat. He was the picture of success. (They often wrote him up in the newspapers.) With the dead in your corner, you can’t fail. Not that he didn’t have his problems. Rumor had it that he disrespected bodies placed in his care. (I never saw him myself.) He carved tic-tac-toe on skin. He stuffed hollow cavities with marbles. He drained insides with a garden hose. He embalmed with shoe polish. These accusations turned away no customers. He was cheap and allowed payment by installments and gave a free vase of flowers to the family of the deceased and guaranteed his caskets to resist rust and rot for fifty years.

  Then this man—his name always escapes me—took things one step further. I was sixteen. One Sunday he entered the chapel shouting and screaming and cursing and woke the snoring congregation. He voiced his charges: The preacher had removed his wife’s neck and put a short log in its place. And the preacher had wrapped that log in a pretty pink scarf to hide the evil deed. (I did see the scarf.) He pointed a sharp finger at the preacher. Your tail is mine, he said. And I got something fo that hefty woman of yours too.

  The preacher’s nerves took over after that. He would not let Blunt leave the house. And when he went out into the street, he took me along with him as his eyes and ears. He would look in every direction at once, scars twitching. Then he would put one hand over his heart, desperate to calm it. But the hand would jump every few seconds, like it had been given an electrical jolt. Then the wheezing would start, and I would guide him back to the parlor. This went on for about a week; then he and Blunt grabbed their hats and coats in the middle of the night and caught the first thing smoking.

  I heard what you did, Hatch said. I know what you did. Mamma had always told him to respect adults, to speak when spoken to, but Blunt deserved no respect.

  She stopped what she was doing and turned to him with her green eyes and wild mascara. Her big shoulders tense and her big hands stiff. What did you hear?

  You know.

  You tell me.

  No, you tell me. Why did you do it? Why? Speak up. Be frank.

  She studied him for a moment. Sometimes it just bees that way.

  Fine, he said. Neither understanding nor caring to understand, he freed himself from the snowsuit and went into the kitchen, where Mamma was.

  Were you good? she asked.

  Yes.

  Then why are you frowning?

  I don’t know.

  You’ll have to try harder to be good.

  Fine.

  Okay.

  Fine.

  A burly foreigner under an ugly red hat explains to a primly dressed man behind a desk why he wants a Liberty Express card: In our country, it is forbidden to wear fur hats or ride speedboats. The white man issues him the card. He zooms offscreen in a long red speedboat. The camera zooms in on the ugly red hat, buoyant on the water. Bubbles carry it under.

  How many times had he seen that commercial over the day’s slow course? They had sat in continual silence, no catching up on lost time, no planning for the found future. Mute monkeys.

  Joy, why don’t I prepare dinner?

  No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll do it.

  Why don’t we both do it? Blunt smiled.

  You don’t have to.

  It’ll be fun. We’ll do it together.

  I would like that, Mamma said. But why don’t I cook and you stay here with Hatch and let Hatch keep you company?

  Blunt hesitated. That’s a good idea.

  Mamma went into the kitchen. Blunt and Hatch watched the television.

  Quiet day, Blunt said.

  Yes.

  Shadow and light, her face flickered. What’s yo favorite show?

  The Phony from Harlem.

  They sat around the round wood kitchen table, with platters of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, corn bread, and candied yams in easy reach. They sat like quiet spectators, as if waiting for the food to perform. A roach crawled onto the table.

  Mamma forced a chuckle. These roaches are about to run us out of here, she said.

  Blunt smashed the roach with her hand, as swift as a judge’s gavel. Mamma turned her eyes away. Stunned like the roach, Hatch watched Blunt until she rose to wash her nasty hand.

  Mamma cleared the table. All three moved into the living room, before the TV, and sat down, not saying anything. Blunt faced Hatch, some half-formed song in her wide throat.

  He watched her. When you gon play that guitar? he asked. Blunt was a phony, and he would prove it.

  Hatch! Mamma said.

  Joy, it’s okay. She looked at Hatch. Why don’t you bring it to me?

  Disbelieving, he rushed over to the guitar—invisible inside its armored case—tensed, stooped down, and lifted it. It was light, weightless. He brought it over and set it down at Blunt’s feet. Blunt shifted forward in her seat, crouched over the case, flipped open the latches, and removed the guitar. Clean bright color. Sun and flame. And thick, cablelike strings that hovered an inch above the fingerboard and the sound hole (a deep dark cave). I bet that’s Red’s old guitar, Hatch thought. Too cheap to buy a new one.

  Blunt plucked the strings with her right thumb—big as a shoehorn—while she twisted the tuning pegs with her left fingers, releasing long scraping vibrations like those of a dragging muffler. Hands working, she tested the strings some more and nodded to herself when she achieved the desired pitch.

  And now, for my next tune—

  Hatch did not laugh at her joke.

  She cleared her th
roat. Stroked the strings and set them humming. Opened her mouth wide in song.

  Sweet daddy, bring back yo sweet jelly roll

  Sweet daddy, bring back yo sweet jelly roll

  Don’t leave me this way

  Burdened with this heavy load

  Hatch’s heart tightened. He rode deep waves of thought and feeling that carried him to some far-off place in the room, where he sat alone, in a small boat, spiraling on a whirlpool of blue water.

  Mamma started briskly for the kitchen. Hatch went dizzily after her. Mamma? Where you going?

  To do my cleaning.

  Come and hear Blunt.

  I can hear her from in here.

  Come hear. A lasting spray of blue water, cool on his skin.

  Come see Blunt play.

  You go back and watch her.

  He went back. Why you stop? Go on. Play some more.

  No. It’s late in the evening. Folks trying to sleep. Blunt put the guitar back inside the case and closed lid and latches. Maybe I’ll teach you how to play tomorrow.

  Really?

  Yes.

  I’d like that.

  Mamma came into the room. Hatch, bedtime.

  Fine.

  Time for bed.

  Fine.

  Good night, Mamma said. She kissed him.

  Good night.

  Good night, Blunt said. She kissed him, her big lips wet on his face, her pug nose hard against his cheek.

  Good night. Anger dragged him from the room and to a dark thinking place under Mamma’s bedsheets.

  He lay there for some time, weighing, calculating, then quietly left the bed at the precise moment when Mamma and Blunt would falsely believe him asleep. He tiptoed over to the French doors and put his ear to the cold squared glass.

  Please try.

  I will.

  You know plenty. So please …

  I understand.

  Yes. That’s all I’m asking. He’s still young.

  I will.

  Well, I said my piece. Good night, Blunt.

  Good night, Joy … daughter.

  Hatch hurried back into bed and pulled the covers over his head. He heard Mamma enter the room. Felt the opposite side of the mattress sag under her weight. He kept his back toward her as a wall and waited for sleep to come.

  I must leave for work.

  Why? Blunt said. I see no need.

  Mamma seemed to ponder the words. Thank you, Blunt. I’m glad to hear you say that.

  No need to thank me. Those bones is tired. It’s time for some rest.

  I won’t argue … Well, I better get Hatch to school.

  You two go ahead. I’ll stay here and get some rest. Still ain’t got that train out of my system.

  Okay, Mamma said.

  Good-bye, Blunt, Hatch said. He smiled up at her.

  Good-bye, Hatch. Yall need money for a cab? It’s a bad day out there.

  That would be nice, Mamma said.

  Rubber boots inches above the floor, Hatch floated on the seat, an astronaut in his inflated snowsuit.

  Why do I have to go to school today?

  Because that’s your responsibility.

  You got frank with me about Blunt and the preacher and you got frank with me about my father because you want me to be responsible? She had once explained it to him.

  Yes.

  Is Blunt responsible?

  Why do you ask?

  She still be responsible if she run away from the preacher?

  Good people stick by those who are good to them.

  The preacher was good?

  Yes.

  That’s not what you said.

  What did I say?

  You know what you said.

  You misunderstood.

  He was good?

  Yes?

  Why?

  He helped her.

  Are you being frank?

  Yes.

  They swung over to the curb.

  Be good. She kissed his cheek.

  I will. He wasn’t sure if she had been frank.

  She paid the driver. Driver, could you please wait? I’ll be right back.

  You got it.

  They quit the cab and took the short path to the school.

  Be good.

  I will.

  When school let out, he found Mamma waiting for him in an idling cab. He spoke excitedly about a typical school day. They had a quick ride home, the cab seemingly sliding above the snow like a great yellow sled.

  Blunt! Blunt! We’re home!

  He ran freely through the apartment. Blunt’s eyes stopped him, heavy on mind and skin, holding him in place like paperweights.

  What happened to your eyes? Hatch asked. They’re blue.

  I’ll show you. Blunt moved into Hatch’s bedroom, her large body in blue silk pajamas, hair flowing like a silver wave down to her nape. She returned with a small plastic case resting on her palm. These are contact lenses, she said.

  What? Hatch said.

  She removed something from the case, raised her hand to her eye. Removed her hand. Now her eye was green. The other was still blue.

  How’d you do that?

  Contact lenses, she said. She held out the case, full of many colored lenses, painted Easter eggs.

  Wow.

  Those are lovely, Mamma said.

  Blunt smiled with radiant satisfaction. Eager to please, she turned her eye gray, then light brown, then green, then blue again.

  Lahzonyah, Blunt called it. Lah-zon-yah. He tried to rise to his feet but found himself anchored to the seat, his stomach heavy with sunken treasure, the long empty casserole dish abandoned in the middle of the table like a beached boat.

  Play some music.

  Mamma glared at him over the hot coffee at her lips.

  Maybe later, Hatch. Let my food digest first.

  How long will that take?

  Blunt laughed. Do you know that I used to have my own place where I could play music anytime I wanted and where dozens and dozens of people would come see me?

  Mamma noisily returned her cup to the saucer.

  What did you call it? Hatch asked.

  The Red Rooster.

  Did it look like a red rooster?

  Blunt laughed. No. Like a barn. The only barn in Harlem.

  Did it have—

  Saturday, we should do some sightseeing, Mamma said. The coffee steamed up into her face. You haven’t seen the city.

  That’ll be fine, Blunt said. How does that sound to you, Hatch?

  Fine, he said. Please play your guitar tonight.

  Why don’t you ask your mother if it’s okay with her?

  Hatch looked at Mamma.

  She was a long time in answering. I don’t see why not.

  Great. Blunt hammered a beat on the table with her roach-slaying palm.

  After some time, she arranged herself in a chair with her guitar.

  If you gon walk on my heart

  Please take off yo shoes

  Said, if you gon walk on my heart

  Kindly take off yo shoes

  I got miles to make up to you, baby

  And I ain’t got no time to lose

  Bright stringed music radiated from the sunburst guitar and enwebbed the entire room. Job done, the rays recoiled back into the dark sound hole.

  Play another one!

  Bedtime, Mamma said.

  No, it’s not.

  Bedtime.

  It’s too early.

  Bedtime.

  Fine.

  Come on.

  Fine.

  Good night, Hatch. Blunt kissed him.

  Good night.

  He stalked out of the room. Pounced upon Mamma’s bed and clawed the sheets. Voices on the other side of the glassed door tamed his anger.

  I asked you.

  I’m sorry.

  I mean—

  I really am sorry.

  I explained my reasons.

  Yes. He is a child.

  I mean, you know
plenty. What was that one the preacher liked?

  “Unchanging Hand.”

  Yes. How about that one?

  A solid choice.

  I’ve tried. Tried my best. I’ve been patient. More than patient. I’m not one to cry over spoiled milk.

  No, you aren’t. And bless you for it. If you put spoiled milk in the refrigerator at night, it’ll still be spoiled in the morning.

  Yes.

  Oh, Joy, I know. You may not believe it, but I know. You see, I ain’t much to look at. No feast for the eye. But the preacher chose me.

  He wasn’t a pretty man himself.

  No, he wasn’t, but he was a good man … Sometimes you had to fish for it. And good fish stay deep. Only the dead ones float on top.

  Well, Mamma said, one might look at it that way.

  Spoiled milk and dead fish both stink.

  That’s true.

  Good night, Joy. Daughter.

  Good night, Blunt. Mother.

  The next morning Hatch rose early and watched Mamma wake from the gray paralysis of sleep. She struggled out of bed, her hands positioned at her chest like a gloved surgeon’s, careful not to touch anything or let anything touch her. More than once he had watched her sore hands soak for hours in a deep tub of warm water and Epsom salt.

  Mamma?

  What?

  Is Blunt sad?

  What makes you think that?

  Is she sad because the preacher died?

  I don’t know.

  Is that why she can sing and stroke and make—

  Don’t talk that way.

  I’m being frank.

  You aren’t being frank. Don’t talk like that.

  How come she likes to—

  That’s enough. Get ready for school.

  They bathed and clothed themselves, then entered the kitchen, the table set and breakfast prepared. Blunt followed her sweet heavy perfume into the room, tight leather jumpsuit and tall leather boots slowing and constricting her movement, and her makeup so thick, she struggled to keep her chin up.

  Good morning, Blunt.

  Good morning, Joy.

  Good morning, Hatch.

  Good morning, Blunt. Blunt bent down—her eyes gray—and kissed him, then drew herself straight. In that space of time he glimpsed something in her face.