Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Of course I understand, Coffin said. Only a fool could mistake what you have set down here. He continued to look Tabbs in the face. Why did you come here? What are your true reasons?

He knew why he was here, but how could he admit it to the lawyer? I seek your representation. That is my true reason.

You hope to win a judgment against General Bethune?

With your help.

In what jurisdiction?

Sir, I trust you with all of the legal details.

Coffin studied Tabbs, reading his face as he had read the documents. And there’s nothing else?

No, sir.

More silence. All right, so we can proceed with the case, as long as you understand what we are up against.

They set about reviewing the plain facts and the relevant dates of the case, a rough- and-ready conversion. Sure, he had written his side of it— Everything set forth in these pages is substantially true and within the truth —a twice-told tale, but perhaps his letter, one or both, differed in essential ways from the actual occurrence, from what he remembered (remembers) and what he said now. Best to acquaint Coffin with the whole of the monstrous wrong General Bethune has committed against him, from beginning to end and back again. As Tabbs spoke, the lawyer concentrated with all his might, frowning, like a dimly understanding devout listening to and pondering a sermon from the master, his hands continually moving across the desk as if he was engraving Tabbs’s words into the oak surface.

You put forth the proposal. You entered into the agreement with conscious mind.

Yes, Tabbs said, aware that Coffin was not asking but telling, reporting, in condensed fashion.

And the contract?

Tabbs produced two documents — thrice folded to form a thick rectangle of paper — from his jacket pocket and held them out to the lawyer. (He did not place them on the desk.) Coffin did not take them right away, still and reluctant, giving Tabbs a doubtful (fearful?) look as if he didn’t know what Tabbs was handing him.

As you’ll see, sir, there are actually two. The one I drew up and the one that General Bethune had drawn up in addition.

Coffin spread the two contracts side by side before him on the desk, keeping the bent pages flat with the edges of his hands. Started reading them.

I signed one then the other, and he signed one then the other, and we spoke and shook hands, as gentlemen do, regardless of race, and I handed over the first installment.

Reading done, Coffin lifted both his face and hands, allowing the documents to fold half-open half-closed on the desk like bloom-shy flowers. He gave Tabbs an eye-scrunching look as if remembering what Tabbs had just told him, as if he had been present at the meeting but couldn’t quite re-create the memory in his mind now. One thousand dollars.

Yes. With a promise of another four thousand, a promise that he never afforded me the opportunity to keep.

Five thousand dollars, Coffin said. An even better sum. More than most men could save in a lifetime or hope to save or dream of saving. His voice so resonant he seemed to be singing.

I have means.

You have a receipt?

Tabbs brought one hand to his pocket.

No, Mr. Gross. You may safeguard it for now. The hidden validity of the receipt seemed to bring about a physical change in Coffin, some ease in position, some relaxing of the shoulders. For the first time, he was leaning back in his chair, actually slouching. And after he reneged, you had no other communication?

I received — Tabbs started with that and knew he had faulted. He couldn’t tell the lawyer the rest, couldn’t tell Coffin that he had already gone to the Bethune estate. Had to and did think up something else to tell him. When I arrived here in town, he said, I received word that the Bethunes had left. It had been only a matter of speculation before. Thoughts and questions buzzing in the silent air. He could see the lawyer working to figure it out, to maneuver around the subterfuge and come face to face with the truth. So he added: The estate is completely vacant. So I was told. He realized that he had spoken incorrectly. In fact, the estate was not vacant. Far from it. Still, he saw no point in correcting himself. Enough damage done.

So you’ve actually driven out to Hundred Gates? The lawyer’s jaw rose and fell with the words.

A certain uneasy remembrance flashed in Tabbs’s mind. Hundred Gates. (The house enjoys the use of a big garden, surrounding it on all sides.) He had pushed the details out of conscious memory. (The gardens are full of flowers, none of which he can identity. What were his childhood names for startling grasses and other forms of curious or secret growth?) But he was pleased, for Coffin seemed to have set aside the idea of studying him more closely. Yes, he said, but only after I learned that it was vacant. (Not true. Anything but vacant.) He let the lawyer know that he had been out to Hundred Gates (trees like slender women) a half dozen times or more since his arrival in town more than a week ago. It never crossed my mind to impose my presence on you before our scheduled interview today. Then he paused — they were looking each other straight in the eye as custom and circumstance required (demanded) — not sure what he expected. Coffin was affected. Tabbs (years later) can still recall perfectly the rectangle of light that the sun cast through the windows, the pen leaning in the inkwell on the desk — a barren post minus its flag — and the slow way that the lawyer began to speak.

The Bethunes fled when so many others did, he said, his voice flat as he imparted the information. (He never said when. Months earlier or years?) He went on to inform Tabbs that upon his decision to meet with Tabbs — a decision he arrived at only after careful consideration — he had taken pains to investigate General Bethune’s whereabouts and learned through his most trusted sources that the Bethunes had taken up new residence at an estate called Elway in Virginia, not far from the former capital. A recent purchase, he said. Quite recent. He moved his hand toward one corner of the desk as if he was about to produce the deed itself.

Not what Tabbs wanted to hear. Some time before he could will his tongue to move. Are you certain?

Yes.

Tabbs said nothing.

So it appears that General Bethune still has financial means.

But that isn’t the end of it. (Bad news on top of bad news.) Coffin informed him that another party, one Perry Oliver — a name Tabbs recognized, yes, the former manager, Tom’s former manager —had filed suit in the state of Virginia against General Bethune for reneging on a contract. The matter had been quickly settled upon the General’s issuing this Mr. Oliver fifteen thousand dollars in cash, the sum total that the jilted manager had paid the General up front upon the original terms of their contract.

Fifteen thousand dollars?

Yes.

Tabbs said nothing.

I am sorry.

Tabbs sat quietly for some time with his disappointments, not sure what he should look at — the lawyer, the desk, the files, the tapestry, the windows.

Your case is irrecusable, Mr. Gross. Certainly the facts weigh in your favor. General Bethune willfully and negligently misled you. So the legal solution seems easy enough. A fair and impartial court, either judge or jury, should rule in your favor based on the documented evidence, the sheer logic of fact. Facts that, I might add, in this instance should amount to justice now that the war has been decided. But you understand that General Bethune remains a capable threat and can forestall a quick resolution. Coffin seemed completely immobile now, his body on pause, hold. Even as he spoke, the slanted flesh around his eyes — praying hands — remained stationary. Tabbs sensed that the light in the room had shifted, changed. For the first time he realized that Coffin’s jacket was the exact color gray as the wall behind him. Found it necessary to watch closely to separate man from background.