Holding Pattern (6 page)

Carpet, coffee table, chairs, love seats, paintings, couch, and walls—all submerged in the liquid glow of television, which thins out, a few blue-white strands, ghostly ripples, the farther it travels from the source.

How come those Indians don’t pull out they arrows? Hatch asks. Is they chicken?

Nawl, Cosmo says. If they pull out they arrows, then those cowboys will come back to life.

If Cosmo regurgitates the rat, will it come back to life?

He scratches away spittle with a bladed fingernail, long, sharp, and shiny in the sunlight. Continues to squat, awaiting birth.

A thick fuzzy night. Coming out of the hot street, made hotter by a golden low-hanging moon and hundreds of blazing streetlamps. Hatch pushed the door open with his fingertips, the water pistol tight in his other hand. He entered and closed the door behind him. Wide-eyed in the darkness. Mamma was usually home to greet him when he made it in from school. On rare occasions Cosmo would arrive before her. At the far end of the room, French doors, open just enough for one to edge through sideways. A sliver of slanted light, a thin line of carpet luminous. The jacket still tight about his waist, Hatch pushed his keys deep inside his pocket, then wrapped both hands around the water pistol and walked toward the beacon of light. The dark put a hand against his back and shoved. He fell heavy to the floor, hammer to anvil, chin-first, pistol still in hand, the weapon plowing a short path through the carpet, raking up fibers. He shut his eyes against the pain. Spun his head and laid his jowl against the plush springy softness of the carpet. Shook inside as if some strange force were gathering.

Sometimes you just irritate the shit out of me. Cosmo started round.

Hatch raised his head and flicked open his eyes. Something stepped into the edge of his vision in the angle of light. He didn’t move. Followed the something with his eyes. Blinked in details. Old-man shoes. Sharply pointed. With whorls of perforation. Baggy pants with fine creases. Knee-length blazer. Silk polka-dot tie. Fedora. Hatch’s body trembled with something it could not let out.

Yo! In front of him now, glaring down.

The pistol was ice between his palms.

Yo!

I’m all right!

I didn’t ask if you was all right.

So.

Say what?

He didn’t say anything.

Did you say something?

Nawl.

Cosmo flexed his soles, stretching the leather, talons threatening to burst out. I didn’t think so. He threw the door wide. Shadows fled. Hatch waited until he was absolutely certain that Cosmo had quit the room, then squeezed his eyes tight.

That’s why I say, Mamma said, her voice a whisper, only what you have in your stomach is yours. She placed her spoon on the edge of her saucer and raised her cup to her lips, her face a smooth round tab of caramel candy.

What can you do? Dad said, head as bald as the chicken drumstick in his fist, torso constricted in a tight sports shirt, arms strong, with pronounced veins. What can you do?

They were seated next to one another at the long dining table, framed within the long window behind them, night pressing against the light within, the faraway rush and hum of occasional cars. On the opposite side, Cosmo sat beside Hatch, stretching out first one leg and then the other and feeling inside each trouser pocket. The smell of meat bent in the air, and Cosmo’s cologne snapped in and out of Hatch’s nostrils like a sporadic cloud of gnats.

Mamma glared at Hatch over the edge of her cup. He placed the water pistol on his lap, sat back. Cosmo was fussing with his tie, straightening it, smoothing out the wrinkles. Mamma threw her eyes in his direction. What’s wrong? A hundred-dollar bill slip in there?

Cosmo grinned. No, ma’am.

Well then.

Cosmo picked up his fork and started in on his dinner.

Hatch mumbled grace—God good. God great. Let us thank him for food and men—and lifted his fork. The plates and cups and utensils were white from constant scrubbing. He studied his distorted reflection.

Poor man. To spend all those years in jail. And for nothing. Mamma sipped steaming liquid. Hatch admired the rhythm of her throat. Dad opened his mouth to admit corn bread. Cosmo did not look up from his plate. A splash of light from the small chandelier above the dinner table gave his hair an even greasier appearance. Mamma lowered her cup to the saucer. An innocent man. But God will tell.

Cosmo fumbled his fork.

God will tell.

Cosmo raised his head and stared fixedly, straight past Dad’s shoulder and through the window.

Mamma took a cigarette—smoking was her only vice—from her pack on the table. Lit up, drew long and deep, blew out a stream of smoke. Such was her sustenance, for she put their hunger before her own, waited for
her men
to eat before she forked her fill. She wanted her men healthy and strong, and daily prepared each a tall cold glass of sulfur and water, filmed over with cod-liver oil, and watched and waited until each drained it in her monitoring presence. Now he’s back with his family.

Cosmo stared straight ahead—out the window? at a precise location in the black distance?

Mamma drew on the cigarette, blew the smoke through her nose like a bull. Hatch considered applauding the miracle but decided against it. She set the cigarette on the lip of her saucer. And they gave him money. Millions of dollars. But what he had to endure! His eye poked out! Wit a red-hot poker!

Cosmo sat, transfixed.

Mamma took a sip of coffee—what Hatch had been waiting for, that rhythm; he had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming in delight—and lowered her cup to the saucer. But see, God will tell. They been tryin to put that company back to right. But they never will. Never will. Mamma shook her head in righteous satisfaction.

Now, that’s my idea of justice, Cosmo said.

Mamma’s mouth snapped shut. In one fluid motion, she surged forward and landed a sonorous blow against Cosmo’s jaw.

Hatch felt a curious stillness in the room, some invisible tent attached to the ceiling and overhanging the table. A bean dropped from Dad’s raised stationary fork.

Thank you, Cosmo said. He scooted his chair back, rose quickly, and quit the table, creases snapping.

Something rolled coldly down Hatch’s cheek. He struggled to see. Mamma cut her eyes toward him. You want some? she said, still perched over the table.

No, ma’am. He wiped his eyes, darted a glance, swung his legs back and forth.

Mamma sat down. In counterpoint, Dad sprang up so quickly that he almost fell to the floor—as if the chair had been snatched out from under him. His sharp footsteps clipped down the hall. Mamma lit another cigarette and puffed slowly and deeply in another world, behind thin bars of smoke.

Shades drawn to prevent the moon from surveying him through the window. Cosmo lay flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, studying the heavens through the telescope of his dick.

Yo brother retarded.

Don’t talk bout my family.

Yo brother—

My final warning.

And he—

Hatch punches the bastard in the mouth.

A crew of roughnecks on the corner spots Cosmo, his fedora bobbing on his head like a storm-tossed ship. What up, player. They laugh, throwing their heads back.

Go ask yo mamma! Hatch shouts. Stank ho.

Cosmo looks at him hard. Jus mind yo own business.

You gon let them talk bout you?

Cosmo slaps him upside the head.

See the way that gump slap shorty?

Yeah. Picking on the lil guy.

We should kick his ass.

Give him a fo-real ass whupping.

Hatch rubs his pain-blotted head.

Come on, Cosmo says.

Skinny motherfucker.

Stick in the mud.

Retard.

Gump.

Hatch sucker punches Dad in his hard flat middle and pleads for a cupla bucks. Dad watches Hatch with large quizzical eyes. What? he says. A cupla bucks? Here. Dad hops once, twice, kicking his heels into the middle of his back. Grins. He tells Hatch to rub his bald peanut-colored head for good luck. Lets Hatch tug his beard. Then he digs deep inside his pockets—he sounds them with silver—and gives Hatch
three
dollars. Stiff new bills, brightly inked. Vibrant, Dad’s dress shirt glows like a movie screen. (Mamma keeps his ironed tops in the refrigerator so they’ll remain soft and wrinkle free.) He heads for the door, his trusty Leica hanging from a neck strap.

Sargent, Mamma says, leave that camera here. Some thug mistake you for a tourist.

I can’t. You know it’s the eye of fortune.

Well, at least put it in the case.

Dad complies, then folds his red silk handkerchief into a compact square and polishes the brass door knocker. Joyous in alligator shoes, stepping carefully down the street on tippytoes—the inflated balls of his feet—taking small steps as if avoiding shit-smeared concrete.

The sun kisses the street into light and color. Skyscrapers glazed in bronze, copper, and gold. Hard haze on the brick buildings, cooking all the folks inside. Ants fry in the dirt. Roaches explode like tiny grenades. Nothing settles or stays untouched.

Dad cannot bear a single finger of warmth. Year-round keeps on his person a portable battery-operated fan that buzzes like a miniature bomb. An air conditioner cools every room in the house, humming at all hours, around the clock, a high cold winter voice.

One telling day, heat rips out the power lines. Agitation at heart, Dad seals himself inside his Town Car, parked at the curb in front of the house. Hatch watches him from a high window in the two-car garage where Cosmo lives and studies and works.

Ain’t you gon come?

Nawl. Cosmo tinkers with an engine. You go head.

What’s wrong? Is you chicken?

Nawl, I ain’t chicken.

Then let’s go.

I’m fine right here. Got work to do. Plenty work.

Chicken.

Cosmo’s hands move over the engine.

Chicken.

Punk, who you calling chicken?

You. Chicken.

Cosmo looks at Hatch, fire in his eyes.

Hatch lowers his face. Backs off. Best not to push his luck. He runs, legs pumping, to the Town Car and finds Mamma standing on the driver’s side, leaning over, face level with the window, her long heavy breasts hanging like rubber bands, a prim dress billowing about her sculpted calves, her high long heels sharp tools jackhammering the concrete floor, her rich behind raised for all the world to see. Hatch bites his tongue in knowledge. Eye to keyhole, he sees Dad bang her at night—Kiss me, my proud beauty—Dad’s duty, bed swinging from side to side like a hammock.

Sargent.

When will the power be on? Dad says, neck stiff, veins bulging like electrical cables. He stares straight ahead through the windshield. The car’s roof glazed in afternoon sun. The air conditioner wheezing against the glass.

I just called the electric company, Mamma says. It’ll be at least a few hours.

Well, I’ll just stay in here until they get it back on.

Sargent, don’t act a fool. I—

I’ll stay out here. Rolling his eyes a little to raise the volume of his voice.

Bright sun forces Hatch to blink. Up and down the street, trees shake in a hot breeze, light dripping, sweatlike, from their leaves.

Then I’ll sit out here with you.

No. Sun on Dad’s face, a small glowing window.

Sargent, let me keep you company.

No.

Don’t act a fool.

Dad doesn’t speak or move, eyes staring straight ahead. A feeling silence.

Well, can I get you anything? A nice cold glass of aloe vera juice?

The sun hits Dad’s bald head with a dull thud. His shaped goatee glows like vanilla ice cream. No.

Why don’t you drive around some, Hatch says.

Mamma looks at him. Go in the house. Hatch doesn’t move. Boy, don’t make me use my belt. Hatch starts his legs. Mamma turns back to Dad, whose blank face gleams. Sargent.

He says nothing. Deaf. Oblivious.

Open the door.

Narrows his eyes and clenches his fists on the stationary steering wheel.

Cosmo leans around the corner, cautious. He looks back and takes Hatch’s hand. Come on. They move swiftly to the bathroom. Cosmo leans outside the door, takes another look around, face bunched as if a firecracker had just exploded near his ears. He straightens up, tears off a square of toilet paper, crumples it into a ball, and pushes it into Hatch’s hand. Here. He gets himself some. He carefully places the balled-up toilet paper into his mouth, then chews like an old man. Go on. Hatch pops the white ball into his mouth. Cosmo tears another sheet from the roll.

Mamma touches Cosmo’s hair, slick wonder. Grease glistens on her fingertips. She rubs them together like money. You think you Mr. Cool in that bebop suit. She looks Cosmo up and down. He keeps his head bowed, thumb and forefinger shaping the brim of his fedora. Look like a pimp.

I ain’t no pimp.

What you say?

Nothing.

Wait till your father hear bout this.

Cosmo stands there, head bowed.

You know I’m gon tell him.

If you must.

Mamma scrunches up her face. Let me advise you. Detest who you are. Build a better self.

Six o’clock. The alarm trumpets. Hatch lies very still in his bed until he hears Cosmo’s door shut. He throws back his quilts, leaps up, opens his own door, and tiptoes down the hall. Bends over slow and careful to avoid knocking his forehead against the doorknob. Peers, squint-eyed, through the circle of the keyhole. Cosmo throws his clothes into a bundle, onto the floor, picks up a book, and slides into bed, genitals swinging. Hatch had hoped for something more.

After a while, Cosmo puts the book aside, then slips beneath the covers. Squirms on his belly, reptilelike, to get comfortable. Imprisoned in shoe boxes under the bed, rats squeak like heels on a basketball court.

His room is sorely neglected. The garage is his domain, where he spends most of the night on a queen-sized mattress on a patch of floor clean of oil stains and gasoline. Space arranged in an order he works hard to maintain. Something about the colors and their careful placement suggests motion. Dozens of stacks of aviation books and technical magazines. Engines in various stages of repair. Mechanical refuse from the neighbors’ trash and yards. On the regular he invites Hatch into his world, his secrets. Kodaks of a woman with two assholes. A six-tittied dwarf. A man with a big fat titty where his dick should be. And other wonders: A glow-in-the-dark penis. A crystal vagina. Aluminum condoms. Specimens in fluid-filled mason jars. He offers these revelations with a straight face, hot sunshine pouring through the high single window. Hatch aims through the glass and shoots down flying saucers with his water gun.