That Chitlin Sandwich got a sword.
What?
Look.
The sword was better than three feet long, the dark brown handle embedded with tiny red stones like mosquito bites. The blade itself was even sicker, with pockets of rust like sores on a mangy dog. Boy and sword were less than a yard away now. She burst out in a spasm of giggles.
Look at that ole silly sword!
Hatch tripped over his own feet making it behind her. He encircled her waist with his arms and hugged her tightly. He gon cut me up! Don’t let him cut me up. I’m sorry, Chitlin! He peeped out from around her waist.
Let me go. She tried to shake him loose. Couldn’t. He ain’t gon cut nobody.
Using both hands Chitlin raised the sword above his head like a sledgehammer and brought it wildly down onto the sidewalk. She was too swift, even with Hatch hugging her waist. A taste of gall rose up inside her. She pried Hatch loose. Chitlin readied the sword. She ran right up to him and punched him in the face. He fell straight backward, a domino, and narrowed the concrete.
The sword fell. Clanged. Nothing moved. Silence. Time.
Why you hit my baby! A lady under a helmet of pink curlers was running toward Sheila from across the street. She moved with incredible speed, flabby thighs bouncing and balancing on skinny bird calves. Why you hit my baby! Black dots peeped through her faded green T-shirt — cut above the navel — and pubic hair crept up her belly over blue jean shorts, panty small and tight.
Yo, Slim, someone yelled. People were hanging out windows, watching from the playground.
Tell her, Shorty.
Yall, get it on.
Party time.
You ain’t got no business puttin yo hands on my child, the bird-slut said, close now.
How’d you like me to punch you?
You ain’t gon punch nobody.
Sheila looked over her shoulder. Mamma. Malice. Still and angry in red house slippers, her hand on something inside the pocket of the flowered housecoat. She’d snapped in her dentures. Hatch was gripping her free hand with both of his.
Hey, there go another bitch.
This should be good.
Word.
Gon, party, ladies.
The bird-slut fixed Mamma with a hard cold squint. Mamma watched her back. Chitlin Sandwich managed to raise himself on shaky legs. Then he dropped back to the sidewalk, cartoonlike, as if his bones had been liquefied.
The bird-slut trained her eyes on him.
Sheila, get yo behind over here.
Sheila obeyed Mamma’s order.
Mamma and the bird-slut stood there, eternally, it seemed, and traded cold stares, eyes flicking.
I don’t think no hittin will be necessary, Mamma said.
Mother Chitlin made no response.
I tell you what: since our children can’t play together, we gon keep them apart.
Fine wit me. The bird-slut leaned from one thin leg to the other.
Mamma eyed Hatch. Now, he ain’t gon play wit you, and if I find you playin wit him, I’m gon beat yo ass.
Yes’m.
Chitlin, get up from there.
Now, if he bother you, come see me.
Yes’m.
Chitlin!
In one motion Chitlin Sandwich arced to his feet, fast and stiff, like a stepped-on broom.
Get yo sword.
He retrieved the sword.
Mamma stiffened. Hatch lowered his head. Chitlin staggered over to the bird-slut, his shirt collar soaked with blood. He watched Sheila, his powerful will packed into his stare.
You heard what she said. The bird-slut eyed him, her voice unfaltering. He ain’t gon play wit you, and you ain’t gon play wit him. Find you some new friends.
Chitlin watched Sheila. The slut snatched him around. They started across the street, the sword dragging behind, sparks showering, crowd parting. He swirled round on one foot and shook his fist at Sheila, slow and stiff. She rolled her eyes. The slut snatched him forward. He craned his bloody neck and threw his eyes back over his shoulder at Sheila. The bird-slut slapped him upside the head.
A week later Sheila watched the Stonewall playground through the all-knowing third story picture window. Swing set. Two small figures at either end. Vast space between them. Chitlin Sandwich swinging in one direction, Hatch swinging in the other. That thing is done, Mamma said. But, Mamma … I saw them. I—
Stop botherin me. That thing is done.
She braked suddenly to avoid tail-ending the car in front of her.
Hey, lady. Don’t you know how to drive?
Do yo mamma! She cursed softly. Put her mean foot on the gas like the pedal was a roach. Jerk! Saying it out loud.
Bubbled in, she drove, all silence and substance. Random contact these past seven years. Casual mentions: Hey, you remember Chitlin Sandwich from the old hood? Well, I ran into him at … Oh, guess what. I bumped into Chitlin Sandwich at … Listen to this. I saw Chitlin Sandwich at … Easily explained, perhaps. (Similar circles: Hatch was a musician — he plunked away for hours at a time, his slow clumsy fingers moving on the strings like earthworms — and Chitlin a producer, an engineer, a technician, a stage manager, and a promoter, in local music circles, and the CEO of Green Wig Productions.) Easily explained but for recent signs denoting more.
Hatch on the corner. Awaiting her arrival. White Jaguar pulling away from the corner. Slow, taking its time … Hatch passing through a fenced-in (caged) basketball court. Shapely guitar case like a sarcophagus at his side. White Jaguar slowing down to greet him.
As in olden times, so now. But why had Chitlin Sandwich suddenly launched an open assault, after years of latent wickedness? Mindful of traffic, she snatched her cell phone and pinned it between her raised shoulder and slanted ear. The loud electric buzz taunted her, raising doubt, mocking her effort. Should she call Mamma? Could she awaken her? Were her ears willing?
Hey, Mamma. It’s me.
Hey, daughter.
What you doin?
Nothin. Jus gettin ready fo bed.
Where Hatch?
In there wit that guitar of his. I made him put on those headphones. I ain’t tryin to hear that noise.
He never stops.
Does a thief?
She is thinking about what to say. You know, I need to tell you something.
What’s that?
Well, you know …
Go ahead.
It’s very important. Very very important.
Jus tell me.
Well, Mamma … you got to do something about Hatch and that Chitlin Sandwich.
What?
You know, Chitlin Sandwich.
Who?
Chitlin Sandwich. You remember him. From Stonewall. Him and his nasty low-life mother.
Why are you bringing all that up? Cause I saw—
I mean, that was a long time ago. How many years has that been now?
But you don’t understand. I saw—
Didn’t I say I’m through wit all that? Why can’t you listen? Did I not say that I’m through wit all that?
Sheila hung up the buzzing powerless phone. It was a matter of great sorrow that Mamma could be so naive about the clandestine friendship between Chitlin and Hatch. Left to her care, Hatch’s low-flaming soul would evaporate through his skin. She did not understand the resilient life of evil. Snakes keep a reserved set of fangs. But, given charge, she would set things right.
She honked a car from her path.
She was fording a river of steaming greens. Hard bacon, stone under her feet. She rose with the river. Air. She was a green wasp flying through sweet heat. She smoothly landed on a wide tree trunk. Disemboweled it with her stinger. Green viny guts exploded from the tree’s solid interior like coiled toy snakes. Extended in all directions — trails, tracks, traces.