Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

He threw the door wide and stepped out into the street, expectant, both where he wanted and needed to be. The Tabbs who spoke to General Bethune would soon disappear, the Tabbs-to-be carrying this fact in his mind as if it had always been there, a name he could slip out of anytime he chose to. He fluttered through the city, gaze rising and dipping, catching and losing a hundred faces.

A week later, one maid let him through a door, another led him in darkness halfway down a long hall, and a third took him the rest of the way. She turned (pointed?)— in there —and she was gone, returning — to light? — down the same blind corridor whose dark length would understandably dissuade most. Everyone quiet and still and looking up at him from their respective places at the table, as if caught off guard. He managed to stumble forward into an empty chair at the table and sat down before he was invited to do so. Taking the liberty, liberties. Carrying the room. This pretense at certainty and confidence mostly for himself, caught off guard too — admit this much — forgetting for a minute what had brought him here.

Mr. Gross.

General Bethune was speaking. He sat opposite Tabbs on the other side of the table, leaning slightly to one side as if favoring a damaged limb. I’m glad that you could join us. Allow me to offer you a refreshment. What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Lemon water? General Bethune lifted one hand from the table and raised it to his side, like one about to take an oath.

Took Tabbs a second to realize that his other was prepared to summon a servant into action. For the first time he noticed a black woman standing in a far corner of the room, a good thirty feet away, as if caught in the distance of another life. She was fashionably clothed in a black dress with maline cuffs and trim, her torso wrapped in a shawl of yellow and red challis. Her face spiteful and impudent, like something trained and caged, ready to pounce upon him should she be so commanded. Then again, perhaps he was judging her appearance, reading her looks, incorrectly.

Thank you for your kind offer, Tabbs said. I respectfully decline. I am not in need.

Should we proceed then? General Bethune returned his hand to the table. Tabbs was already growing tired of seeing him, of hearing his voice. Couldn’t wait to be done with it all. Kindly allow me to introduce you to the other gentlemen you see before you. The man seated beside him he introduced — he gestured — as Dr. Hollister, a medical specialist who guarded over Tom’s health. Seated next to him — General Bethune gestured — was, at last, Mr. Geryon, General Bethune’s attorney-at-law. (That peculiar phrase.) The two men seated on Tabbs’s side of the table: Mr. Warhurst, Tom’s stage manager, a well-dressed man with black distant eyes who took the trouble to smile at Tabbs — Tabbs in midlumbering with his hat, hidden hands (beneath the table) straightening it, then moving it to his other knee, crushing it — and a curious-looking man of the cloth —our pastor , General Bethune called him — Reverend H. D. Frye. Blunt and inexpressive, he appeared to be still in his teens, possibly younger. His clothes fit him poorly, oversized, his body a small concern among the folds. All the men in the room received Tabbs nicely enough. After this initial introduction, General Bethune and Mr. Geryon dominated the talking, words upon words, Warhurst and the two men seated alongside Tabbs never a single utterance, Tabbs continually aware of the silent weight of their watching, the gaze of one (Warhurst) unreadable, that of another (Dr. Hollister) curious, and that of the last (Reverend Frye) resentful. Of course, General Bethune did not introduce the woman, presumably his servant or the servant of one of the other white men. Tabbs was prompted to ask— And who is she? or Madame, your name would be? — but he couldn’t risk making a mistake. Intent on acting in concert with what he believed might least offend.

Excuse me for asking, Mr. Gross, General Bethune said. Might you have some idea how much longer we must be detained? I assume your legal counsel will arrive shortly.

My attorney will not be joining us today, Tabbs said.

General Bethune peered into Tabbs’s eyes defiantly, a look that also seemed to hold some strange uneasiness.

Is all in order? Mr. Geryon asked. Today, we truly wish to arrive at terms agreeable to all involved if so possible.

I have already submitted the contract for your review, Tabbs said. I am perfectly capable of attending to any required modifications.

His words silenced both General Bethune and the lawyer, the men at once transparent (stunned) and impossible to entirely see through, completely still, for a time, as if unable to move. Then Mr. Geryon spoke. Even if that is the case, Mr. Gross, is there some reason why your esquire cannot be present today? In your favor, we can adjourn until a later date.

My attorney believes me perfectly and fully capable of handling any negotiation.

Mr. Gross, certainly you are aware that—

Let us proceed, General Bethune said, leaning forward on the table, hands cupped.

I have carefully reviewed your contract and weighed its fairness, the lawyer said. I have so counseled my party, General Bethune, to subscribe, pending your willingness to sign an agreement I have drawn up. The lawyer’s hand disappeared under the table, resurfaced with a leather satchel, which the lawyer promptly laid flat on the table and opened, pulling a sheaf of papers, several pages thick, from inside. The lawyer slid — how small his hands seemed bringing the words, whatever they were — the bundle toward Tabbs, until letters pushed into sight, a document titled “bill-of-sale agreement.”

Mr. Gross, the lawyer said, his voice high and tight, we see the need for two substantially similar, if not exact, versions of a contract, your contract, so that the exchange will be legally binding in both nations.

Tabbs considered this some.

Shall we review it together?

Yes, Tabbs said. Keeping the bottom edge touching the table, he took up the bundle and inclined it, propped for reading.

The lawyer took up a second copy of the contract positioned on top of his leather satchel, fit his bifocals onto his face, and with extreme readiness began to read it aloud, paraphrasing clauses where he felt the legal language was difficult, pointing to certain lines with his fingers as if to something too difficult (hidden) to see. Granted, perhaps Tabbs didn’t understand all of what was written there, a foreign language, Greek to his skin, but he made the effort, fully listening and taking in the lawyer’s abbreviations and clarifications point by point, seeking to understand it here in the moment — no time later — checking that understanding for validity, pursuing further to see if this validity served him, then persuading himself to accept it or reject it — well, in the end, he rejected nothing — before he privately arrived at a final decision to embrace the proposed terms.

So this is what we ask, Mr. Gross, the lawyer said. I hope I have been sufficiently clear.

Yes, Tabbs said.

We can give some time alone for a second reviewing.

That won’t be necessary, Tabbs said. I am prepared to sign. He feared nothing. I feared nothing. Some weeks later he would realize that he should have. I should have.

His words hummed in white silence above their heads. With all the eyes in the room turned on him— all eyes on me —he felt in himself a complete and triumphant assurance. He needed more and he would find it here, right in this room, among these men. With no hesitation, only fresh clean movement — he will inhabit the free spaces — he removed a precounted wad of crisp banknotes and counted out two thousand dollars in notes of large denomination on the table, then with one edge of his hand slid croupier-like the stack of notes across the table to General Bethune. No one moved. No one said anything. Then a sudden shift of delicate forms (skin, paper, leather, and other solids): the lawyer, moving, speaking.