Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

I understand you have a matter you need to present before me.

Yes. Tabbs wasted no time in outlining his proposition, making his intentions clear. General Bethune listened to it all with no change of expression.

You must have given this matter considerable pondering, he said.

Yes, I have.

You speak well.

Tabbs looked into the other’s confidently upturned face, under its smooth sweep of hair. For whatever reason, everything apparently sat well with him. With this realization, Tabbs’s face started to go tight. Difficult to keep his eyes open. Weighted under the fatigue of observation.

Then he saw something: General Bethune shifted slightly in his seat, an odd adjustment. And it occurred to him: something strange in General Bethune’s physical makeup, although he couldn’t say what exactly, couldn’t put his finger on it. General Bethune wasn’t (isn’t) put together quite right.

But no matter how well you speak, what would possess me to give this matter serious consideration? I see no reason why I should.

Tabbs was pleased with the question, for he took it to mean that General Bethune would actually consider doing the impossible: entering into business with the darker other. Consider it, sir, Tabbs said, for one primary reason. The war may end tomorrow or the day after, next month or next year or two years from now. We know not the hour. But one thing is certain. You will lose.

General Bethune didn’t flinch. By all indication, you are right, Mr. Gross. If I understand you correctly, you wish to rescue Tom. But Tom is already free.

No, Tabbs says, quite the contrary. This is not a moral matter, but an industrial one. I see an opportunity. More likely than not, other men will soon approach you, perhaps some already have.

Ah, General Bethune said, the early bird.

Yes.

And why shouldn’t I wait for one of the latecomers?

I will best any offer.

I already possess money. I own industry. Discretion outweighs all else.

Tabbs contemplated this some, needed to see what was back of it. You would claim to understand better than myself a person of my own blood?

General Bethune did not answer right away. Sat watching Tabbs, his face betraying no emotions. Perhaps you are right, Mr. Gross. Tom might best be served by another Negro. Even so, must that Negro be you? What I see before me is merely another boy. He had intentionally or unintentionally spoken with signs of growing dislike — the moment Tabbs had, perhaps at his deepest self, hoped for, an insult that would justify a full venting of his anger.

Your kind always knows what’s best for us, Tabbs sneered. I suppose what I require is the blood of experience on my conscience to become the equal of you.

Understand something, Mr. Gross. You are clever and strong, but you will never be the equal of me.

Tabbs idled in his seat, hot air slowly escaping from his lungs.

How could a son best a father? But your equality or lack thereof is not why you are here today. You seek Tom. I would sorely regret sitting in unfair judgment of your youth. For that reason, I need you to make clear to me what logic would justify my putting Tom in your hands. I have no intentions of insulting you, Mr. Gross, but I must express my belief that at your age you can hardly answer for your own self.

Tabbs held back hard air, fists clutched. Could he save himself? All lost in his mind. He decidedly had not wanted anything outrageous to happen, anything to go over the line, the more especially at his provocation, but it had. As I said earlier, sir. I seek opportunity. You well understand this. As a military man, you are accustomed to leading. And in your present role, retired from military service, you remain one of the leaders of your country, perhaps more now than before.

Yes, General Bethune said. I am a leader. But I am no longer a leader of men but one of thought. That is why I publish.

Indeed, Tabbs said. You would agree that thoughts are easily led?

I would. Still, Mr. Gross, you have failed to fully satisfy my conscience. Surely you have considered the possibility that his own kin should want possession of him?

Yes, sir, I have. And I will back down if they so request. But I ask careful possession of him until such request be put forth.

General Bethune was quiet for a time studying Tabbs carefully. What time frame do you have in mind?

I am willing to pay you one thousand dollars now, sir, at this very moment.

I see. And how did a youth, a man such as yourself, a Negro, come into such a sum?

Respectfully, sir, is my history of concern in this matter?

You are correct. Winged light flew across the General’s face. And what about the balance?

My investors will provide me with the balance after you sign and notarize the contract. Then we will expect immediate delivery of Tom into my charge.

General Bethune fidgeted in his seat. So you have investors?

These grimaces brought to light that Tabbs had the white man where he wanted him, that he held the black upper hand. Yes, sir. I can supply you with a list. He needed General Bethune to believe that he was not alone in this venture, as a white man neither respects nor fears a singular Negro.

Perhaps it is more pertinent at this time for you to produce a contract.

Tabbs removed the contract from his jacket pocket and smoothed it flat on the table. (Any who should read it will find it carefully worded.) From the other pocket he removed a stack of banknotes, two leather cords wrapped around either end to keep it neatly formed.

General Bethune did not move or give any indication that he noticed either the money or the document. Only continued to look at Tabbs.

The money is completely sorted, Tabbs said.

I trust that it is, General Bethune said. Still, you understand that my attorney-at-law will need to review the contract. He did not touch the document. Nor did he touch or count the money.

I would expect nothing less. You will find the money is all there.

I shall sign in receipt.

I have no such receipt for you to sign, Tabbs said.

Room flickering, General Bethune looked surprised. You elect no receipt?

No, Tabbs said. He knew full well that the money was a calculated risk, small bait for the larger catch. I know you as a man of your word, however much I might disagree with certain views you express and certain causes you champion.

So you know me. You needn’t worry. I will present this contract before my attorney-at-law today and you should expect a speedy reply. May we both wish that this contract meets with Mr. Geryon’s exacting standards.

I so wish. Tabbs could barely contain himself, remain seated. I will wire word to my partners that you have accepted the terms of our agreement and plan to subscribe yourself to the contract upon your finding it suitable.

You have my permission to do so. General Bethune extended his hand out to Tabbs. Why did the gesture surprise him? Was it because he had not expected to glide through the negotiations? And certainly not in a single day. Deals are never so easy, unless one party already feels at a disadvantage, defeated. He hooked his hand into the General’s — brown to pink — and gave it a firm tug before letting go, leaving the other to feel like the fish lucky enough to yank free of a captor’s hook whatever blood and flesh loss.

Found himself moving down the dark hall and encountering on his way to the front door one after another the three (four?) black maids. Seeing the women made him think, How did we get from there to here? Only now had history made it possible for him to give flesh to an abiding logic of thought. The world he could (can) make — you possess a thing only when you build it with your own two hands — if he accepted the challenges and risks. Chance speaking. Hands measuring and shaping.