Holding Pattern (20 page)

Ward thought about what the gloves kept out and all that they kept in. Hoping to calm himself, he brushed snow from his coat, removed his own gloves, and blew hot air into the well of his joined hands. The wipers switched back and forth across the windshield like lascivious buttocks. A second car moved ahead of them, venting smoke. A third car behind.

“Coldest so far.”

“You’re a genius,” Ward said. “Now turn up the goddamn heat.”

“What?” The driver craned his neck to look back over the seat. Perhaps he would steer the car with one hand and shoot Ward with the other. “You want to repeat that?”

“You heard me.”

“Officer,” the police superintendent said, “do the honor. Turn up the heat.”

The driver shot a quick unprotesting glance at his superior and clicked on the blower.

“Thanks, you cocksucker.”

The police superintendent looked at Ward’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Take a moment or two, if you must.”

Ward offered no reply, only sat rubbing his palms together. The blower roaring like an untamed beast.

“That warm enough for you?” the driver asked.

“No. Have your mother send up a fagot or two from hell.”

The driver began rocking from side to side in his seat, his fingers tapping anxious rhythms on the steering wheel. The police superintendent gave him a sharp look, and he pressed his shoulders into his seat, the dark shape of his head looking straight ahead, through the snow-repellent windshield.

“Kiss him once for me, would you?” Ward said to the police super intendent.

The police superintendent turned around in his seat and gave Ward his familiar look of disgust. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Who would have ever thought.”

“Certainly not you.”

The ride was otherwise uneventful, the streets specked with people, black forms silhouetted against the snow.

“Here”—the police superintendent dropped a ring of keys into Ward’s lap, letting them fall from his hand with the highest form of disregard, a soiled-nose wipe—“the keys to the city.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” Ward deftly deposited the keys into some inside pocket of his coat. He looked over and saw that the young officer who had kept vigil outside his door was snickering into his upturned jacket collar. When they made it to their destination, this same officer pulled Ward from the car and rudely bumped him and shoved him into the snow, but in such a way as to make the action seem accidental, an inadvertent trip over the curb. Ward regained his feet, brushed snow from his clothes, retrieved his scattered thoughts, and patted his pockets to be sure that the keys were still there, showing no concern that his outer garments were thoroughly soaked through. Then the police superintendent took a firm hold of Ward’s gloved hand and led him forward as if he were a child on the first day of school. Black and slick, his streamlined shoes jumped above the snow, one after the other, like dolphins.

They had walked some fifty paces, Ward’s breath coming a little harder with every step, when the police superintendent stopped as if on cue and spun Ward in front of him like a practiced dancer.

“Please sign, here and here.”

Ward did as instructed. The police superintendent slipped the damp form into his jacket and stood before Ward under his white derby, the hat tiny on his massive head, like some ghastly baby bonnet. “I would be lying if I said it has been a pleasure.”

“Spare me.”

The police superintendent turned and headed back for his car and left Ward to the snow and wind. Ward vowed to take away with him some memory of the man. However, the weather being what it was, he was already having trouble remembering exactly how the man’s features fit together. So much so that Ward considered calling out to him and requesting a quick but comprehensive physical inventory, fully aware that, in all likelihood, the police super intendent would not acquiesce. But instead, he looked through the neutral and colorless distance and saw an old five-story walk-up building slanting away from the ground—a splinter angling up from skin—at a precarious angle, snow swirling around the structure as if to lasso it upright. His appointed destination. What was keeping it standing? He turned a last time to look at the police super intendent, who was now leaning against the car—white derby snugly atop his head—where the two young officers were hunched over, sharing a cigarette. Uniformed men from supporting vehicles worked to cordon off the street with brass barricades they took from the trunks of their own cars, in a shared geometry of secrecy and isolation.

Ward reached into his coat pocket for the ring of keys but fumbled them against his chest into the snow. At once he dropped to his knees, biting at the ends of his gloved fingers until his hands were free of the leather. He stuck his bare fists into the snow and began clawing about—hungry bear or ice fisherman—reacting to the cold in an almost clinical way, the snow both surprising and mundane. He scooped up two fistfuls and weighed them in each palm, and he told himself that he would do better to avoid any new feelings and impressions he was not yet conscious of, which he had not possessed in years. However, his proximity to the earth allowed him to see that snow was actually rising up from the street and fleeing into the heavens—an impossible journey, as the domed sky would allow no escape. No sadness at the realization, for the thought took hold of him: at this very moment he was kneeling at the very center of the world, at its cold icy navel. He trembled to shake himself free.

Twenty feet ahead he spotted a familiar figure trudging through the snow toward him. He stuck his hands back into the slushy mounds and worked more frantically after the keys. Heard the snow-crunching approach of the two young officers behind him. Looked up and turned his head to see them bobbing forward with pistols drawn. Had they misinterpreted the direction and meaning of his submerged and sweeping hands, mistaking purposeful search for beckoning wave? He thought to shout, “The keys! I dropped the keys!” Burrowing down, trenched in this place, which had already started to corrode beneath him, melt and puddle around his knees.

Down in the alley, Chitlin Sandwich sat wide-legged on a fifteen-speed racer, fifteen himself, a schoolboy, dressed like somebody’s granddaddy, a wide fedora slanted across his face, his tall skinny frame entombed in a wide double-breasted blazer, a diamond pin centered in a fat red and green polka-dot tie, flashy argyle socks, peeking above two-tone patent-leather shoes, like two shiny puddles of mud beneath his cuffed and pleated baggy slacks. He was sipping from a can wrapped in a brown paper bag and drumming his fingers on a burlap newspaper sack that hung over one shoulder. Sheila was certain that the bike belonged to Hatch—her little brother—or that it was an exact replica, its twin. She pressed her face hard to the window glass and cut her eyes at him. He regarded her with frank indifference, as still as an owl. Then he tilted the bag and drank long and deep. She felt hot anger rising and spreading throughout her face, elongating fingers of flames. His diamond tie pin caught the sunlight. He took one final gulp, crushed the wrapped can like a mosquito between both hands, and sent it clattering over his shoulder, into an open trash barrel. He pulled a
Daily Chronicle
from the burlap sack, drew back his arm like a pitcher, only to toss the newspaper underhanded, like a softball. It soared in early-morning air and plopped like a dead bird onto Sheila’s porch, inches from her window. A spasm of rage gripped her throat. I’m twenty-four and educated and the assistant human-resources manager at the growing East Shore Bank, and I will not put up with this. She went out onto the porch.

You’re lucky that didn’t hit my window, she said, fists clenched at her sides.

Ain’t nobody tryin to hit yo window.

What are you doing here in the first place?

He narrowed his cunning eyes and grinned. Only later would she realize that this was the first time she had seen him mirthful in seven years. Can’t you see? Here to delivery yo paper, baby.

Look, I don’t play. She swallowed, breathing more easily now. If you want to play, go to a school yard.

His eyes flared up with hate.

Shoo, boy. Shoo! Her hands brushed at him, brushed him away, dirt.

He started off on the racer, his eyes looking back at her. I’ll be seein you, ba-by! He blew her a kiss.

She exploded. Felt her hair singe and crackle. Boy, I’ll slap the shit out of you! She started down the porch steps.

His eyes glinted with rage. Pedaling, bike and boy disappeared.

That’s right. You better run.

She turned back up the steps and went into her apartment. Paced the room. In her anger, she had forgotten to confront him about the bike. She had purchased a red fifteen-speed Zurbo Turbo Urban Assault professional racer a week ago as a gift for Hatch when she learned that Lucky Green’s Groceries had hired him as a delivery boy—his first job. She was excited that at age fifteen he had finally set his athletic-shoed feet on the road to maturity. Now Chitlin was riding the bike.

She halted. Composed herself for work. One must be prompt. She moved into the bedroom, checked herself in the mirror, liked what she saw. Long black braids with neatly spaced colored beads flowed away from her brown face, down to her nape, trawl lines on night water. A gray knee-length dress fit close on her tight and toned curves. I will marry when I find the right man. The thought died as suddenly as it had arisen.

She quit her apartment, secured all six locks, and descended scrubbed stone porch steps—feeling both nimble and heavy—as if drawn by some force beneath the grassy lawn. She made her way down a short cement path to a speared wrought-iron fence and gazed out at the quiet streets, geometric lawns and hedges, prim flats (like her own), and houses of North Shore—gazed, searching for signs of Chitlin Sandwich. Nothing stirred. Disappointed, she opened the fence, closed it firmly behind her, and walked the few feet to her lime-colored Datsun 280ZX. Got behind the wheel. She was tempted to search for Chitlin Sandwich, but the bank came first. The groan of ignition. She handled keys, gears, and buttons with the skill of an astronaut.

Eased the car onto the highway. Watched the road through the windshield, and the windshield watched her back. Thinking about her brother, buried reflections. Fifteen years ago, Mamma had gotten so disgusted with fat greedy chicken-eatin wing-robed preachers (with each word, shout, hum, and grunt of his Sunday sermon, Reverend Ransom had examined her with knowing eyes) that she stopped attending church altogether. A ghost began to plague her family. He would nibble Sheila’s toes or fart above her bed—anything to prevent her from sleeping. She grew restless and dizzy. Bumped into objects like a spun cat. The ghost made comical faces whenever she sat on the toilet. But he soon tired of these games, tired of Sheila, and began to frequent Mamma at night, singing low-down blues all the while. (His blues-toned laughter still ruled her dreams.) Mamma found both prayer and potions ineffective. She sought the advice of her medium, who suggested that she change the direction of her bed. This worked. Then her belly began to round. Nine months later the ghost made a final appearance. He hot-wired a car, drove Mamma to the Cedar Sake Hospital, and set her down on the curb outside the emergency room. One hour later Hatch came quietly into the world.

You haven’t finished them files yet? Petite, smooth, and beautiful, a fairy, Angela spoke from the opposite desk. Files were scattered over Sheila’s desk like stones from a felled wall.

I’ll have them done by the end of the week.

I hope so.

Yeah, girlfriend. Niece spoke from the desk to the right of Sheila. She was as dark as a tree trunk and just as round and promising. Angela on her left, Niece on her right, and Sheila trapped between them. Better hurry up. You only got two days.

Two days is plenty of time.

If you say so.

I say so.

She don’t know what she sayin.

Sheila trained her eyes on an application and read it a third time.

You sure are sluggish this mornin, Angela said. Why you so slow this mornin?

Oh, that big strong long man musta kept her up last night.

Niece and Angela shared a foul laugh.

Lift both yall minds outta the gutter.

Nawl. Why don’t you come down here wit us.

You wish.

The three women worked in silence for some time.

We’re going to have dinner after the demonstration Saturday, Angela said. Maybe do some dancing.

Where?

Frank told me to ask you.

Let me think about it.

How bout the Sugar Shack? Niece suggested.

That new club?

Yeah. Dinner, dance, drinks, dudes. All a good girl need. Niece flicked her tongue fast and nasty.

The car rocked roughly over some potholes. Roofs lay in a crazy jigsaw against the sky. South Shore was a decent neighborhood, but Sheila searched long and hard to find a parking space in sight of Mamma’s living room window. She roared into the spot like a professional test driver and quit the engine. All had gone well at work. Troubled, preoccupied, she wondered at the upheaval. Disorder. She had decided to visit Mamma and report the morning’s events, even if her words fell on deaf ears.

She was about to place her key inside the lock of the front door, when she heard voices on the other side of the door. She stood quietly in the hall of the building and listened.

Now, I never minded yo playin guitar.

No, ma’am.

It kept you outta trouble and yo grades ain’t never suffer. I didn’t even mind yo going over this nigger’s house to practice, cause I thought them other musicians might improve yo sounds. But I ain’t gon let you play at no bar.

Please, Mamma. This my chance.

As God is my witness.

Please, Mamma. I’m beggin.

The only way you can go to that bar is by kickin my ass, and I don’t think you qualified to do the job.

Mrs. Wardell—

It’s Miss Wardell.

Miss Wardell, please allow me to interrupt. Salamanders is not a bar but a disco, and a prominent establishment, I might add. I can assure you that it is frequented by decent and well-educated individuals like yourself.