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.
IV
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
Learning to Kill: Stories