Allen - Holding pattern : stories

ALSO BY JEFFERY RENARD ALLEN

FICTION

Rails Under My Back

Song of the Shank

POETRY

Harbors and Spirits

Stellar Places

Graywolf Press

Copyright 2008 by Jeffery Renard Allen

Publication of this volume is made possible in part by a grant provided by the Minnesota State Arts Board, through an appropriation by the Minnesota State Legislature; a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota; and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art. Significant support has also been provided by the Bush Foundation; Target; the McKnight Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks.

Special funding for this title has been provided by the Jerome Foundation.

The stories in this collection first appeared in other publications: Bread and the Land in Antioch Review ; It Shall Be Again in African Voices , reprinted in 110 Stories: New York Writes After September 11 , edited by Ulrich Baer, New York University Press; Shimmy in Other Voices ; Toilet Training in Antioch Review ; Holding Pattern in Literary Review ; Mississippi Story in Story Quarterly ; Dog Tags in Bomb ; Same in Land-Grant College Review ; The Green Apocalypse in Other Voices ; The Near Remote in Chicago Noir , edited by Neal Pollack, Akashic Books.

Published by Graywolf Press

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Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401

All rights reserved.

www.graywolfpress.org

Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-55597-509-8

Ebook ISBN 978-1-55597-347-6

2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1

First Graywolf Printing, 2008

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008928246

Cover design: Kapo Ng@A-Men Project

for

Elijah, Jewel, and Sophiaheart of my heart

Special thanks to the Whiting Foundation, Creative Capital, and the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library for their generous support

The land may be spoiled, yet it will remain intact.

DINKA PROVERB

Note : Though the name Hatch appears in many of the stories that follow, the reader should not assume that this name represents a single, reappearing character.

I hear my train a comin.

JIMI HENDRIX

Black flutter, Mamma flashed about the room, workbound, her shiny knee-length black leather boots working against the wood floor like powerful pistons. Up, down, up, down. She stopped and looked at the space around her. I have everything, she said. The hem ends of her long black dress flared like wings.

Yes, you do, Hatch said. He waited patiently on the bed edge, warm, his snowsuit packing him tight in heat and sweat, all of him sausaged inside puffy outer skin.

She put herself before a full-length mirror, flexed a black hat onto her plump head, and slipped inside a black fur coat. The hat was real fur, but the coat, some imitation material.

You look dashing, he said.

Thank you.

He watched her with hot pride. She was heavyset but pretty. Even with her second chin, she was ten times prettier than the mother of any classmate at school.

The phone rang on the faded brass nightstand next to the bed. Uh. Who could that be? People always call you at the wrong time. She lifted the receiver to her ear. Hello. Her eyes widened. Its Blunt, she said.

Oh, he said. My grandmother. He didnt like his grandmother.

You must go to work, he said. Tell her. Be frank.

Words chirped in the earpiece. Mamma brightened. The preachers dead, she said.

Oh, he said.

The preachers dead.

Thats good, he said.

She gave him a hard look. Placed her hand over the mouthpiece. Dont get smart.

He didnt say anything.

Put those things in Mammas bag, she said.

A small duffel bag lay unopened on the bed.

Okay, he said. He picked up her rubber gloves, pulled the fingers, and let them snap.

She looked at him. You know not to make noise when Im on the phone.

Fine. He crammed the gloves, a white smock, white rubber-soled shoes, deodorant, and a bar of soap into the bag, which spread at the sides, stuffed like a holiday turkey.

Yes, Blunt, Mamma said. Okay, Blunt. I understand.

Blunt and the preacher lived in New York City, in Harlem, point of origin for a nationwide chain of funeral homes. Just around the corner from where Hatch lived, a Progressive Funeral Home entombed an entire street, the name spelled out in square orange blocks lit from inside, like supermarket letters. A man-high wrought-iron fence surrounded and secured the parking lot, four redbrick columns for corners, each topped with a white globe at the end of a long stem-slim black metal pole.

Blunt and the preacher own that, Mamma liked to say.

Yes, Blunt. My grandmother.

Snooping, he had found two other Progressive Funeral Homes listed in the local telephone directory.

Name and deed, Blunt traveled through his mind like some inky substance. He had never spied photograph the firstMamma had burned all existing images many years before he was bornor heard her voice. Once a month, Mamma mailed Blunt a letter with his most recent portrait, and Blunt mailed her a lettertyped, always typedwith a check.

Why doesnt Blunt send us more money?

She sends all she can.

How much is that?

Whatever she sends.

Fine.

Good-bye, Blunt, Mamma said. She hung up the phone. Turned to Hatch. Smiled. Hatch, come here.

What? he said.

Come over here to Mamma.

Is this something frank?

Yes.

What?

Blunts coming to live with us.

Nawl.

Dont use that street language.

Im not.

Choose your words carefully.

Whos coming to live with us?

Blunt.

My grandmother?

Yes.

Why is she coming to live with us?

Because the preachers dead.

So?

The preachers dead, so now she can come live with us.

How come she didnt come live with us when the preacher was alive?

You know why.

No, I dont.

Dont talk back. And dont talk countrified.

How come she never visited us?

You know why.

I dont know why. Tell me. Be frank. Good people are always frank.

I am being frank.

You aint.

Watch your language and stop talking back.

I aint talkin back.

Mind your mouth.

How did the preacher die?

Suddenly.

Oh.

You know that the preacher had a bad heart.

Who had a bad heart?

Be a good boy for Mamma.

I am being good.

Then well let Blunt stay in your room when she comes.

Nawl. I dont want her around me. He liked his small room, high above the world, a third-story nest to which he flew for refuge.

Were going to move your things into my room so that Blunt can put her things in your room.

Nawl.

Itll only be for a little while. Blunt has lots of money now, and she wants to buy us a house, and well all live together, and youll have a big room.

She lyin.

Watch your mouth. You get worse every day.

I do not.

And stop talking back.

He said nothing.

You can sleep in my room when she comes.

Nawl. Ill sleep in the kitchen if she comes.

What did I tell you about talking back?