Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

But you know more about him than I do. So there ain’t nothing I can give you. He looked back at Tabbs, showing his strong white teeth.

Sooner quiet than say too much, Tabbs said nothing, a silence that did not reside on the surface of his lips but in the mouth. The world is always half someone else’s, never one’s own, never Tabbs’s. He wished he possessed his own private language that could represent him speak him be him.

You talkin bout how I look. I don’t see him walking here with you. Why don’t you go ask him for it? Go on out there to Hundred Gates, if you ain’t already been.

(The wrought iron gate.) (The carefully arranged grounds with fine shrubs and vines and graveled walks bordered with flowers.) (The waveless sheet of the pond.) (The marble fireplace inside the great hall.)

I’m all you got.

He continued to follow the Doctor, the sweep of hair, the hunch of shoulders, the squat wall of back, nothing of the Doctor’s legs visible in the dark, only this floating faceless torso.

Certain things a man ain’t gon give up, can’t give up, even if that thing be his owning the flesh of another man. I absolve myself of such claims. When all this mess started I set mine loose, every one of them, one hundred and twenty-four mouths that I gave food, upkeep, clothing, a roof and walls, year after year, settling their vexations and celebrations and all matters in between. They belong to themselves now. And where are they? Roaming about, confused, hungry, dead.

I just want the boy.

So does he.

What?

They went into the grass, no longer solid path beneath his feet but soft earth, his shoes pressing down with each step. Any time now, he would sink, disappear, sucked in.

You mean to tell me you ain’t figured that out by now? He ain’t got him.

Tabbs said nothing, bursts of facts illuminating the night with the fireflies. Some way off he could see Mrs. Birdoff and her help heaping crates into a cellar.

Ruggles: a long pull on a fish hooked deep. Raising the fish from water, still alive (thrashing) at the end of the hook. What about the worm?

Who did you think I was talking about? Thomas.

He wanted to stop walking but couldn’t.

Do you know where the boy is?

What I know don’t matter. Go bargain with his mother. You can bargain with her. She has a right to what’s hers.

I already spoke to her.

Speak to her again, Dr. Hollister said.

The Doctor stopped walking and turned to face Tabbs, Tabbs almost stumbling into him. He watched Tabbs for a moment, the edges of his mouth working. Maybe I got you wrong.

Bearing no grudge and hardly any sorrow, Tabbs breathed in the smell of the Doctor’s cologne. He had all he needed, a chance to undo what had (has) been done, a possibility, plan of action that could not have suited him better if he had designed it himself.

Take them in there, Tabbs said.

Master boss, President Lincoln said, we can do it right here. Right here in front of her so she can see.

President Lincoln didn’t move, lingered staring at the Bethune daughters in one long unbroken moment, his rifle at his chest, the barrel close to his nose as if he were sniffing it. (Tabbs disliked the driver’s casual handling of the rifle, but what could he say?) The Bethune daughters remained standing where they were, each girl with a distinct look of terror on her face, each girl planted in a cone-shaped dress, their slim torsos tapering off to constrictive bonnets, slim nothings, three long-stemmed flowers. And Tom’s mother with garments in kind, similar but apart, her face placid, undisturbed, riding above the driver’s words.

Just take them in the other room.

You ain’t got to worry. Only us here. Ain’t nobody gon know. President Lincoln saying what he is, what he wants.

Tabbs needed to talk, needed to penetrate the driver’s focus, keep his hands from doing the thinking. I just need to talk to her. Nothing else. He said it without panic or force, calm, trying to bring the driver back to himself.

So you gon and talk while I take care of this.

I need them.

The driver paused in his offer to look at Tabbs. You ain’t got to do it. Not nwan one. I’ll do it. I’ll do it all.

I don’t need you to do my work. Tabbs tried to sound capable, tried to create the picture that what had drawn them together was something greater than money, the dollar he had given in exchange for the driver’s services, the dollar he might give tomorrow.

But you gon stop me? Why? They ain’t nothing but woogies.

I know what they are.

Then you know. All them years, master boss. The driver looking at the daughters again, his eyes wet, moving. All the hurt these woogies put on me, years they put on me, put me through.

But I need to talk to them. How will I talk to them? The dead can’t talk.

Okay, master boss. I ain’t gon get in yo way. You go on and talk. Talk. Then just say the word.

Tabbs was relieved. Lucky him. He hadn’t the will to talk sense to the driver. The driver nodded a command, and the daughters herded into the other room, the white buttons on their shoes moving under the smooth expanse of their skirts, their hands linked like paper dolls, President Lincoln behind them, the long barrel of his rifle fisted in his right hand like a walking stick. He firmly shut the door.

Tabbs heard himself say to her, He won’t hurt them.

The woman watched him sternly.

But I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth.

I know some truth.

Tabbs looked into her face for some time. Miss Bethune — Wiggins, she said. Greene Wiggins. With the e. That’s who I be. He wondered by master or marriage? The Wiggins. The e. Her words said to him, I’m other, I’m not a Bethune.

Miss Wiggins—

You looking for him, Thomas.

I’m looking for your son.

Thomas.

You are free. You both are.

Proclaimed, she said. Proclaimed.

He thought about it. The Bethunes cannot stand in the way of maternal bond. So why are you here? He has no hold on you.

He gave me the girls. I got them to tend to.

They are his daughters, not yours.

I know what’s mine. All mine gone, she said. Niggers always gon have cause to call on a woogie. Ain’t nothing come from us, and ain’t nothing gon end with us.

What have they done with your son? Where are they keeping him?

He livin up north with that Yankee woman, the one who marry Massa Sharpe. Her words rose to the ceiling, stayed put for a few breaths before they started their descent, settled on his face and shoulders. Our child you have returned to us. My child you have returned home.

All this time, Tabbs said. All this time. He shook his head. He been right there in my face. In the city. Back at home. He laughed. He shook his head some more.

She asked, How did you let yourself get mixed up with General Toon? I never known him to have no dealings with our kind. With niggers.

“My song will stand.”

I’LL BRING HIM BACK TO THE HOME TOMORROW, TABBS SAYS. He is far, far away, the floor between him and Ruggles like a shimmering lake of sunlight. He doesn’t know what work he will do once he leaves the island. Only this: he has settled this matter of Tom once and for all. After all else, now the boy himself is the great impediment to his aim, Tom the final impasse that can’t be moved. No remedy to his loss. The sooner he’s done with the boy, the better. Anything but surrender to Edgemere. Anything but getting stuck here. Once he’s gone, the island will shrink to a tarnished coin that he might lift and carry in his pocket.