Holding Pattern
Page 18
Sheila took cover behind her raised hand. Yes. Recognize her anywhere. That’s Chitlin Sandwich’s mother. The bird-slut.
Sheila lowered her hand and turned her eyes to the dance floor, jammed with waving arms, wiggling bottoms, and shuffling feet. The speakers blared “Tea with Mr. B.” by the Sam Hill Roughriders.
O woman with a sky in yo thigh
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 s
cream 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.
From her place in the ditch, she could no longer see or hear the white Jaguar. Dim screams. Coughs. Gagging. Feet trampling branches and brush. The smoke thinned. Someone gave a shrill warning cry. She watched it all, immediate and remote, tactile, a viewfinder picture. Face rimmed with light, Chitlin Sandwich was bent forward, both hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes almost touching the windshield, teeth tight in a pained smile.
He looked ridiculous. She smothered an impulse to laugh. He sped by, every eye watching, peeled, and crucified.
The Jaguar turned, tires crying. She pushed herself up from the ground. The car came gunning forward, half-slanted in the ditch. She dusted clean her bright summer dress and presented herself to him, memory and substance, mission and will. The car flipped over, rolled down the ditch, and slammed against a tree, then half rolled back up the ditch and fell on its hood, all four wheels topside, like a trained dog’s paws. Without pause, red hands edged out of the cab and searched the flattened grass. Hands and body, Chitlin Sandwich crawled from the cab and turned onto his back, still, breathing, opposite the Jaguar’s spinning wheels. Sun slanted into the ditch. Chitlin Sandwich. Breathing and bright. The gold watch had broken from gold vest chain. Nowhere in sight. The brim of his fedora directed at the treetops.
Damn, Angela said. Damn. Motherfuck!
The wind carried a blend of dust, exhaust, and blood.
Are they dead?
Crazy bastard.
The motor’s hum in her ears, Sheila approached Chitlin Sandwich with fists formed. Like a retractable cup, he rose in circles from the folds of his baggy slacks. Mouth open. Pieces of fractured windshield embedded in his cheek. In one motion, he removed his fedora, his eyes squinting, and swung it in a wide curve. She watched it beyond time, counting the revolutions, aware of the exact moment the sharp brim caught her forehead. More startled than hurt, she sighted what she could of his eyes and gave him her meanest look. He held his hand up for the fedora’s return. Caught it. At the ready. Like crude professional wrestlers, Frank and Angela tripped and pinned him to the ditch.
Damn! Motherfuck!
It’s okay, Frank said. It’s okay.
The Poors were kneeling over Chitlin Sandwich like priests attending the dying. He pedaled his legs like a trapped fly. Mouth gurgling.
Are you all right? Frank both speaking—to Angela? to her?—and holding Chitlin Sandwich in place.
Numb, Sheila touched her forehead. A dab of fresh warm blood on her finger.
Are you okay?
She raised her dress hem—blinded, exposed—and cleaned blood from her forehead.
Are you okay?
She let her dress fall. Yes.
Are you sure?
Yes. I’m fine.
You sure?
Yes.
You know him?
She know him! Angela said. Damn right she know him! She slapped her cloche, with a blast of dust, against her hip.
Conviction, Sheila moved forward in their direction. She did not rush. Her feet could not feel the ground. She seemed to be walking on her ankles. She came to where they kneeled. She bent at the waist and picked up Chitlin’s fedora. Slapped the dust off her bright summer dress. Reshaped the crown between her fingers. Stiffened the brim. Empty gestures. Indulgent. Vain. Taunting, perhaps. Challenging. In sum—she judged herself—too little too late, but telling all the same. The Poors seemed to understand. Synchronized, they took to their feet—twins, reflective forms—leaving Chitlin Sandwich unattended. Eyes wide, unbothered by sun, he did not try to rise.
Mississippi Story
It
is my history and
it
is my autobiography
when he sings.
— STERLING PLUMPP, “MISSISSIPPI GRIOT”
The driver takes a quick and cautious glance at me in the rearview mirror, then returns his calm but vigilant gaze to the highway. Though there’s no traffic, he keeps the minivan at a crawl, both hands on the steering wheel, his foot pushing into the hum of the engine. His hair is short and neat, slightly longer than a boot-camp cut. And he is a long-limbed fellow, slim and strong in a long-sleeve cotton shirt and jeans, his skin smooth and bright, milky innocence. “A little town in East Texas. I doubt if you’ve heard of it.”
“No. I don’t think I have.” I lean forward a bit on the wide seat to hear him better, the joints of my shoulders sore from the plane ride.
“Well, I had never heard of the university back home.”
“No?” Dr. Hallard says. The crown of his head rises above the seat cushion in front of me, as bald and pointy as a chess bishop’s, a few remnants of hair here and there on his brown wrinkling scalp. He is a professor back East, specializing in Russian history, if I heard him correctly. He rocks about in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable. We’re both long in the leg, and the minivan is much smaller than it seems, plush cushions meant to foster the illusion of space. What we both must be thinking: A white boy chauffeuring two black men down a Mississippi highway.
“Not where I’m from. It’s kind of isolated. I think my mom was there once. She and my stepdad are driving up next weekend to help me build a shed for one of my professors.”
“You keep busy.”
“Yes. I’ve had to since I lost my scholarship.”
“Do you still train?”
“I try to find the time.”
“You really must. Sixteen feet.” Dr. Hallard sighs in astonishment.
“Yes. My best jump.”
“Wow.”
“There were a couple of other guys back home who could make that jump. One went out to California. One went to New York. He made the U.S. team. I came here and had a good first year, but then I seemed to fall off. I don’t know what happened. I was training hard, as hard as I ever had, as hard as I could.”
“Yeah, well—” Dr. Hallard shakes his head with the same cheerful resignation he had earlier, on accepting the mishap with his luggage at the airport.
“So, have you been on any digs?” I ask.
“Yes, several. We have quite a few sites right here in Mississippi.”
Bleak sunshine. The shuddering windows reveal heavy foliage under an overcast early spring afternoon. Vertical trunks and tightly positioned leaves chart our progress toward the town.
“That’s right,” Dr. Hallard says. “There are Civil War battle sites throughout this area.”
“Several big companies have been constructing strip malls on many of them.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes.”
“Such a shame.”
“Quite a few people have been trying to stop them.”
“That’s good. A railroad used to run right along here.” Dr. Hallard points to the grassy roadside beside the opposing lane. I take a long and thorough look. Think I see the ghostly outline of railroad tracks. “They would run their transports up and down here.”
“Yes.”
“So there were always plenty of raids and acts of sabotage, not to mention actual battles. Oh man. I can’t even name all of the battles that happened down here. Let me see.” Dr. Hallard taps his fingers on his scalp, sorting through a mental index. “There was Holly Springs, and Corinth. Shiloh, of course. And Tupelo—”
“That’s where my family is from,” I say.
“Oh yeah?” the driver says. “That’s about forty miles east of here.”
“Well, not exactly. They’re actually from Fulton. Houston.”
“So you’ve been down here before?”
“Used to come all the time when I was a kid to
visit my great-aunt. That’s been, what, thirty years? Then again, I was here ten, twelve, years ago for her funeral.”
“You might want to drive over while you’re here.”
“Perhaps I will. All this time, I never knew the university was so close to where she lived.”
“Less than an hour’s drive. Most students hang out and party in Tupelo.”
“Rather than Memphis?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Tupelo is not quite as far.”
“You’ve been to the battlefield at Tupelo?” Dr. Hallard asks.
“No. We do mostly Indian sites.”
“How do you know where to dig? I mean, how do you narrow down a spot?”
“Glad you asked. Let me tell you. We put an infrared camera on a huge helium blimp. Now, this blimp is the size of a basketball court. Bigger. The robotic camera travels along it and pinpoints places where you might find some artifacts. It’s quite amazing.”
“Wow.”
“A blimp, huh?” Me, Hatch, the skeptic.
“Yes.”
I think about it, uncertain if I’m impressed. You have made me glad. At the works of your hands, I sing for joy.
We ride in silence for a while, tires measuring out time. The highway seems inconsequential in this landscape, like a jackknife that can be folded back into its handle. An occasional car or truck creeping down the road like a steel-and-glass insect. Breaks here and there in the tree-jammed roadside, elbow room for squat houses with compact driveways. (No garages.) Every now and then some ragged suggestion of a farm. Cow or horse or chicken or pond or crop—one fact among many in this terrain of the hidden and the seen.
“What kind of winters do you all get down here?” Dr. Hallard asks.
“Oh, mostly rain. Every once in a while we’ll get some snow. Two or three inches hit the ground and everything shuts down.”
Many trees at the margins of the highway are stooped over in fascination at whitening earth, twistings of vine and branch like so many whorls on a fingertip.