If it’s not a bother, ma’am.
No bother.
He watched the rough movements of her hips as she rose, her behind round and fat the way he liked. She returned with another glass.
We read all your books. She motioned to a bookcase in the corner. Every one. More than once.
My deepest thanks for the support.
Your ability to move people with words. Your feeling and understanding.
Nothing special. The rewards of hard work.
You are blessed. Jesus got his eye on you. Frieda went over to the case and removed a book, a hard-spined copy of the General’s last novel, Hard in Heaven, which she held before Lincoln’s face, opened to the title page, like a waiter at an upscale restaurant proudly presenting the menu.
I would be honored, ma’am. Lincoln removed a pen from his pants pocket, took the book from her, and autographed it: To my true friend Frieda, with love and admiration. The General. He wrote the exact date under the signature and returned the book to her.
She took a moment to read the inscription. You are so kind, she said. She met his eyes—hers round and puffy—and turned away.
My pleasure, ma’am.
She placed the book on the table, before the wedding photograph, then returned to her seat on the couch next to Lincoln. You look much younger than we imagined.
Lincoln smoothed the fold in his trousers. I keep in shape. But I suppose it’s in the genes.
Her face was ordinary except for overly round cheeks that pulled her mouth into a permanent smile. And her eyes, swollen with grief, shone like black reflectors. She wore a short dress that fit tight across her firm outstanding breasts. Lincoln had to admit, Emmanuel had lived well. Oh yes. She placed her hands across her bare knees like napkins and picked up the photograph. He was a credit to the race and all good Christians, ma’am.
Thank you. She ran a hand down her face as if clearing her eyes of water. A knife of sunlight slashed through the space where the draperies met.
I’m sorry that I didn’t know him better.
You knew Emmanuel?
Yes, ma’am.
He never told me.
We were part of an association, Lincoln said. Such lies were routine, in accordance with the dictates of his methods and plans, as he had a store of talk for each of his women. An association created by and for black veterans. A mutual-aid society.
Oh, the association. Emmanuel never told me that you were a member.
We keep our membership secret. But here—he reached into his pocket—I have this for you. He gave her a check for one hundred dollars.
Frieda took the check. What’s this?
I’ll bring one by every Monday.
But why?
It’s our way of taking care of our own, ma’am. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.
Her legs showed beneath her skirt, but he always went slow with his women.
I don’t understand.
God knows best, he said.
Praise Jesus.
Praise Jesus.
She cried—her head was small and round and heavy on his shoulder, and her tears were hot and wet—and so did he, forcing out actual tears. He showered her with innocent hugs and kisses. Go slow, bro.
Then they prayed. She had a special space for this purpose, a room—a walk-in closet—small and empty except for a wooden card table with a white candle on top. A four-foot-long Jesus hung suspended from the wall, a crown mashed down on his forehead, blood running in thick streams over his face, and his chest open like a door where a fat red heart bulged out. They kneeled before the table and bowed their heads before Jesus. Frieda prayed with the round beads of her rosary, over and over again. And as he prayed alongside her, Lincoln had a distinct feeling that someone was peeking out at him from the corner behind Jesus’ heart.
They returned to the living room. Lincoln collapsed on the couch, Frieda beside him.
The baby bobbed on the cold water. He knew no strokes, only the dead man’s float. Soon, he tired of it and, in cold dignity, raised his hands above the water. He had fine surgeon’s fingers.
When Lincoln came to, Frieda was wiping his face with a wet rag.
Are you okay?
Yes, ma’am. The cords in his throat were tight. I’m sensitive to the heat.
Would you like some water?
Yes.
She exited the room. Thank God for hips. Jesus hung, silent, in the shadows.
O Holy Father, speak to me, Lincoln said.
What’s that?
He hadn’t heard her enter.
I was just seeking strength from the Redeemer.
Frieda set the glass of water on the table, between the two photographs. Should we pray some more?
In a little while, Lincoln said. He drained the glass, coolness sloshing around inside him.
You have great shoes, Frieda said.
Thank you.
They sat for a while, Frieda bumping his knee with hers at random intervals, a knee stinging with warmth. Lincoln looked her full in the face. She met his eyes for as long as he wanted. He gave her his best smile.
He left her house several hours later, she propped in the doorway, looking after him as they said their final good-byes. The day diminishing, manageable light. He blew her a kiss from that spot near the lawn where he had taken his first glimpse of her house.
Washington Boulevard. Lincoln felt a welling in his chest, a live coal, a wave of hurt spreading over his body. He rested for a moment against the rough brick face of a building. Some ten feet away a white boy was handing out flyers to passersby. He was as tall as Lincoln but rail thin, like a sheep shorn of wool, his gray eyes penetrating metal rods. A gold earring hung in orbit beneath his left earlobe, a bright miniature sun. And he was dressed street snazzy, in a black sweat suit, Nike sneakers, and a red baseball cap pushed way back on his head. He pivoted this way and that, shoving the flyers into any chest that chanced near him, all the while rapping some popular tune:
I’m smooth as silk and sweet as honey
My fingers produce a lot of jam and money.
He smelled so sweet that Lincoln wondered if his body were a chamber where, deep inside, incense smoldered and burned. Lincoln eased himself upright and took one of the flyers, then read the message printed there in bright shocking colors:
Know this title, Hard In Heaven. Authored by the General.
This book sucks rank dick. A public-service message. FUSION
Lincoln punched the white boy in the jaw, knocking him flat to the concrete, flyers spilling around him. What the fuck is this? The boy lay there, flat. Lincoln repeated his question. After a while, the boy managed to raise his head. Did you make this? Lincoln held the crumpled flyer in his hand.
The boy rested on one elbow, rubbing his jaw. Damn, homey, he said. You didn’t have to fire on me. One side of his face was red.
Did you make this?
Goddamn. The boy rubbed his jaw.
Lincoln took a step forward. Did you make this?
No, don’t hit me again. He made a pleading gesture with his hands.
Well, tell me. Did you make this flyer?
No.
Who did?
The boy rose to his knees. Took his time answering. The people I work for. He stood up, legs shaky. Tucked the flyers under his arm.
Who do you work for?
Man, those are some cool shoes. He studied Lincoln’s pointed cordovans. Where did you cop them?
Look—
You must not do a lot of walking. The white boy stood there, rubber-legged.
Look, I’m going to ask you one last time. Lincoln was choking with rage. Who do you work for? He looked at the flyer. FUSION?
The boy shook his legs out.
Is it FUSION? Who do you work for?
Your mamma.
Holding Pattern
You always be seein some wacky shit on the train. Bitch slap a nigga for eyein her. Nigga piss on somebody who piss him off. Somebody get
they throat slit over a gold chain. Shit like that. Like, this one time, I see this nigga fall flat on his back in the aisle. His teeth start rattlin like keys, and then he start shakin down the aisle and shake all the way to the other end of the car. Another time, this bitch face bleed away. I mean, she just sittin in her seat, mindin her own business, when this gash open in the sidea her neck. She put her palm over the gash, but it keep inchin up her neck. She put her other palm over that gash, but another gash start up the other sidea her neck. And these two gashes keep climbin and climbin, like they runnin a race, climbin right on up to her chin, up her face, then spread this net of blood all over her forehead. Bitch open her mouth like she fin to holler, but her tongue all red and drownin in blood. She put her hands over her face, and her hands change to blood. Then her head fall right offa her neck and go bouncin and rollin down the aisle. You shoulda seen it. Everybody screamin, tryin to jump off the train, wit nowhere to go. Some wacky shit.
The kinda shit this trippy world can put on your brain. And that ain’t the least of it. You’ve heard about the jumpers, the suicides. Well, one time, I was all the way up inna first car, standin there lookin through the head window down on the tracks, seein what the engineer sees. And I see this lady kneelin between the tracks, inna path of the train. She looks up and sees the train bearin down on her. Her eyes get all wide and bright, and she gets that look like, Oh shit, what the fuck am I doin? So she hops up real quick and tries to squeeze her body flat against the tunnel wall so the train will slip right by her. But inna situation like that, you jus can’t slim up and disappear.
Some trippy shit. And I could tell you more. Lots more. But to spare you the trouble, I’m jus gon tell you bout this one day that beat all. Why I had to stop ridin the trains altogether and institute a career change.
See, I had this routine. Rise early, freshen up. In this profession it’s real important to smell good. For extra protection, smear some liquid soap under yo armpits. (This one department sto downtown got the best shit. That perfumey shit. Top-of-the-line. Always fill you up a lil plastic bag or two for later use.) That day I tiptoe down the fire escape (my landlord can be a real bitch when it’s that time of the month) and make my way down to the cage for the mornin bets.
It’s bright and early in the mornin, but niggas is already out. Standin on the sidelines around the cage, lookin through the metal fence, twenty foot tall or higher. Lined up like a flock of birds on a telephone wire. Don’t play no ball myself. Niggas is too rough, all elbows and feet and teeth. But I don’t mind watchin from the sideline. Place my bets and flip some money. I got a good eye for that kind of thing.
So, I’m bout to place my bet, when I see buck-wild Shiheed standin to my left, frownin all up inna my face. Shiheed, he one funny-lookin motherfucker. Long square bread-loaf head. Eyes all slanted like bird wings. Low eyes, low, almost sittin on his nose. Nostrils big enough to drive two Mack trucks through, cargo and all. Boogers big as peanuts. And these big white wide bright teeth like bars of soap. One other thing. This nigga is skinny. You can see his bones through his clothes. Skin thin as a kite. Pea, he say, I know you ain’t bout to bet on that bitch-ass nigga.
I seen him play befo.
He won?
Yep.
That musta been his twin. Nigga be out here twenty-fo-seven gettin his ass toe up.
Really?
I kid you not. Look at him.
I look at him, but I can’t see what I’m lookin at cause Shiheed got me all confused. So I think about it for a minute. Well, I guess you should know.
Of course. I’m out here all day.
So I bet on the other guy. We stand and watch the game. Do I need to tell you what happened? That bitch-ass nigga won.
Damn, Shiheed, why you fuck me up like that?
What? Nigga, who you tryin to blame? I’m tryin to look out for you.
Shit. You know how much that fucked me up?
Stop cryin. I lost money too, but you don’t see me whinin like a bitch.
Shit.
You need to squash all that. I’m sorry. Truly. Sorry.
Fuck.
Why don’t you place another bet.
Fuck that.
I understand. I owe you. Let me hook you up.
Man—
What can I get you?
I’m straight.
I got that powerful shit, that Mount Everest shit. Turn you into a superhero. Leap buildins in a single bound.
I’m on the clock.
Make time fly.
Really. I’m straight.
I heard that. My nigga. Make that money.
That’s what I came to see you about.
What?
That thing I asked you to do fo me. A week before, I’d given Shiheed some ends to flip. Would you have a return on my investment?
Shiheed, he turns toward me, he puts his eyes on me. And they fix me like lasers, burn a hole right through my fohead. All these pictures of fucked-up bodies and piles and piles of dead niggas come flyin and screamin through that hole.
Not today. Things is slow.
I’m lookin at him, but I don’t say anything.
But, hey, I’m gon hook you up.
I don’t say anything. Ain’t shit I can say.
You know I’m a man of my word. Catch me tomorrow.
Okay. Whatever you say.
My nigga. Hey, walk me up the block.
I really need to bounce.
I’m just goin up to the corner sto.
I got all this business I need to—
Damn, nigga. Why you trippin? You can’t walk me up the block?
My skin shrink around my body, tight, beef jerky. Crazy motherfucker. Aw aight, I say. No problem, I say. I start to walk with Shiheed. Walk behind him.
You hear all that corny shit about the shadow of death followin somebody. Things you hear be true sometimes. Shiheed, he got one foot in prison, the other in the grave. I always walk a little behind him. Make sure I keep my eyes on that shadow. Keep that shadow between me and him.
Damn, Pea, he say. What the fuck is wrong wit you? Can’t you walk like normal people?
I’m tryin to, I say. I got this condition.
Fuck yo condition. Shiheed’s back pockets are packed full, bulgin out like two square titties. That condition wouldn be fear?
Ah, Shiheed. You know me.
Thought I did. So, you got my back?
Of course. But, hey, I ain’t down wit that gangsta shit.
Nigga, there you go again. Trippin.
All I’m sayin—
Did I ask anything from you?
Look, I can’t do no time. They’ll break a lil nigga like me.
What? Nigga, you better wise up. Grow some hair on yo chest.
Just then we arrive at the sto.
You don’t even know what I’m gon ask you.
I know. But thanks for the offer. I’ll holla. I start to walk away.
Pea, you ain’t gon come in the sto wit me?
Like I told you, I got to handle—
Nigga, you on some real fucked-up shit. Come on in the sto. Let me buy you a double ounce of courage.
I try to laugh it off.
Shiheed’s face loosen up and he pop into his weird laugh. Nigga, you know I’m jus fuckin wit you. We cool?
Always.
My nigga. Shiheed stroll on into the sto.
Seein that he holdin out on my money—what I’m gon do, gat the motherfucker?—figure I haf to pull me some ends befo my afternoon hustle. So I bounce up to the El platform and wait for the train. I see this other head standin on the platform, a tall skinny nigga wit this green bandanna tied round his noggin, the knotted ends curlin out from his fohead. Nigga standin way high on his toes, head cocked back, like somebody tryin to snatch him into the sky. He see me and nod, all silentlike. I nod back. Then he go, It’s a good day to make some money, if the squares don’t get in yo way. He watchin me hard, real hard. So I walk to the other end of the platform.
When the train come, I hop on nice and quick and whip out my tall-boy malt-liquor can, papered over wit a black label wit red letters sayin uplift career arts academy. I make my way from car to car, holdin up my can and askin for donations. Most people ignore me, keep readin or talkin or starin outta the window. I can say I’m disappointed but can’t say I’m surprised. That is one weak hustle. Always is. So I decide to resort to some real criminal behavior. I’m small and quick, and I can spot an expensive handbag from four car lengths away. Caiman, that is. That’s the only thing I fuck wit. Don’t even go after all that designer and name-brand shit. Everybody got that fake shit nowdays, so it’s hard to tell. And another thing: all that fake-ass jewelry. So it’s either the caiman or the money, the money or the caiman. I walk from car to car, fix people in my head and eyes as I pass, lookin for an easy mark.
I snatch this big fat bitch purse and she snatch back her purse, and me with it. Then she hop up from her seat and pimp slap me. Knock pain in my head. My brain hummin and vibratin like a dunked-on hoop rim. Bitch put me in this headlock and start squeezin my neck so hard that tears pop outta my eyes. Can’t help but smell her underarms, right? People usually be stinkin under they arms, specially fat people. But this fat bitch bout the best thing I ever smelt. Smell like my whole head inna can fulla sweet flowers and fruits and candies. (She must know that department sto downtown.) But she don’t give my nose long to appreciate. She take off her shoe—and she ain’t got on no stockins—and I see the prettiest big toe I ever seen, no corns or nothin. Like a fine little titty. I’m watchin that titty when that fat bitch start hittin me upside the head with her hard-ass heel. Then she haul off and sling me away from her, a Rollerball move, and I feel sumpin twist in my neck, certain that this bitch done snapped my head off, that my head back there under her fine-smellin arm. I touch my head to make sure it’s still there, and that’s when I feel what I think is blood crawlin real slow down from the toppa my head. And I feel this thing inside my head movin up and down like wings, wings flappin heavy and hard.
Fat bitch jus stand there lookin at me. She got all this white makeup on her face. Look like she dead. She be like, I’m tired of you lowlife niggers. Some people should never be born. Then that fat bitch kick me right in the nuts. Wit that fine-ass big toe.
Holding Pattern Page 9