Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Christ bought us with his blood. The words come from his mouth, but they are not his words, his mouth. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. Everything in the room pulls into silence, time broken around them. The dancing light from the kerosene lamps assume shapes that give everything in the room an oddly broken impression. Light he does not trust. Such terrible darkness.

Do not unduly bear the burden of your fallen brethren, Double says. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice carries and everyone listens. For unless Jehovah has raised you up in this thing you will be worn down by the opposition of men and devils.

Heat cleaves to every object in the church like a low fever. Wire feels the grip of weariness, both drained and filled.

The search for a homeland has always been at the center of our chronicles. And so the years go by.

Double’s expansive words seem to push at the walls of the chapel, make them fly apart and come together again.

Truth crushed to the earth shall rise again, he says. The same indignation that cleared the temple once will clear it again. Brothers, await that day. In the meantime, say nothing, do nothing. It is enough that all of us are here now. When the time comes, the Lord will give us the words to speak. Scarcely moving in the darkness, he unsnaps the button on his left shoe, removes the shoe, then unsnaps the button on the right shoe and removes it. He cups his hands together and from knee to toe slides his left silk stocking free from his leg and foot. Repeats this process with his right stocking. Then he just sits for a while looking at the other men in the room, his bare feet contoured like two red-brown mushrooms. Wire gathers vaguely that he wants them to follow his example, but it takes the soldiers a full minute or two to catch on. Drinkwater sits down on the pew and his men follow his lead, taking places in his proximity, shoulder to shoulder, where they proceed to remove their soiled boots and socks. Many ideas taking shape in his head, Wire is the last man in the room to partake in the brotherhood of bare feet.

Double takes up a pitcher and pours water into a basin. He kneels before Drinkwater and carefully lifts the lieutenant’s foot as if it were a delicate bird, pours water over it, and massages it clean. He returns the clean foot to the floor then lifts up the other foot smoothly and easily and effortlessly, pours water and cleans away the mud and dirt. He passes a freshly filled pitcher and a newly emptied basin to Drinkwater’s second-in-command, who kneels down before the soldier to his left. Amid the somber circulation, the sound of pouring and rinsing, Wire cannot shake the feeling that they are being spied on, shadows watching them from the corners, and even through the high windows, darkness looking in; he is certain of it. And yet they continue pouring and rinsing, Wire secretly glad that, true to form, Double had brought into being this evocative ritual — ribbons of water — for these soldiers requiring answers, consolation (some at least) in knowing that the Deacon has succeeded (momentarily?) where he, Wire, had not the fortitude, resolve, and presence of mind to try.

And this feeling deepens as Double slides from water back into words, his voice a low grunting accompaniment.

I was in a wilderness sort of place, all full of rocks and brushes, when I saw a serpent raise its head of an old man with a long white beard, gazing at me, wishful like, just as if he were going to speak to me, and then two other heads rose up beside him, younger than he—

The hands on Wire’s feet are pleasing to the touch.

— and as I stood looking at them and wondering what they could want with me, a great crowd of men rushed in and struck down the younger heads and then the head of the old man, still looking at me so wishful. This is a dream I have had again and again and could not interpret it until now.

Charity looks around the austere room where Wire works on his sermons— Brethren, I have taken off my shoes and on this consecrated ground adored the God and Father of our ancestors. You’ve been crowned with victory. There is a king in each of you —looks at the bed, the table, shelves of books, sketches on the walls, and the shiny white sheets of paper that occupy his hard narrow desk like felled birds. No easy time of it. His robe stiff tight on his shoulders like feathers mashed in place. He shifts his bulk from time to time. She waits in silence, the room hot, airless, can feel the urgency flowing from him in waves. Wouldn’t surprise her any if he rips the sermon into skinny strips and tosses the wasted words out the window. Nothing a preacher can’t do. He puts down his stylus, shakes his head, looks up at the sagging ceiling — God pressing in — shielding his eyes as he does so. Seems to have forgotten that another person, her, Charity Greene Wiggins, is in the room with him. But then he looks at her, and for a moment his eyes look almost compassionate. Try again. He shuffles the papers, moves them about on the desk, piecing together a new nest where his tired hands can perch. Looks at her absently, eager to get back to his sermon. So she’ll just keep standing here, awaiting some sudden surprise of light, color, or motion. Not much longer now. He takes a sip of chocolate tea, lukewarm now, returns cup to saucer. Primed, he stuffs a black plug of tobacco in his mouth and chews his annoyance away. Spits brown puddles of tobacco juice right onto the floor.

She remembers moments of the recent past that already seem distant, long ago:

Why did you go? Thomas asked.

I ain’t go nowhere.

You been.

They took you, took you away.

You say.

He gave you to them.

He put his arms on the table. Still arms, slack face.

You understand? They took you away from me.

But here now.

Yes. Here. Together…. Don’t you miss me?

Got no words.

Why? They took you. A nigger ain’t go no say.

You want to play. Play. I’ll hear you.

She started to hum a song, low in her throat.

Don’t ever touch me like that again, he said.

She blows out the quotidian candles, readies the kerosene lamps, and carries them lit by the latches, two to a hand, into the small sitting room where the Vigilance Committee, twelve deacons from as many churches, come with weekly reports about trials, tribulations, and triumphs. (She does not give as much thought as she might to what the men actually speak about.) Looking at the men, she thinks about how the black children of Israel are like a speckled bird in their many shades of skin. She serves them decanters of sack, kettles of soma, and goblets of Medusa for those who want their eyes to roll back in their head. Bowls of goobers and pecans, apple and pear preserves on little rafts of hard bread, and flat cakes of ground meat smothered in sweet red sauce. Reverend Wire is brightly attired in blue robe with a line of silver buttons shining — she keeps button polishers in the pantry — from his throat down to his shoes. All of the men at the table wear robes of the same color if not similar in fit and construction.

Using only the tips of his fingers, Deacon Double lifts a newspaper from the table, the newspaper some vile unclean thing. Brothers, this is what they write about us. He lowers his eyes and reads from the newspaper. Negroes at every turn. Their presence is undesirable among us. They should be confined to large tracts of unimproved land on the outskirts of the city, where they can build up colonies of their own and where their transportation and hygiene and nourishment and other problems will not inflict injustice and disgust on worthy citizens.