Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

A little breeze reels through the white curtains and suddenly the entire room feels different.

Double raises his line of sight from the newspaper and makes a point of catching the gaze of every man in the room. It would be nice to be able to say a miracle had happened, he says. But it hasn’t. We know these alabasters, know that their hearts and hands are capable of anything. Knowing what we do, it is the duty of every man here, men of God, to provide himself and his congregants with arms and ammunition. I myself have at least one rifle and at least enough projectiles to make it useful.

Wire says, At this moment of revolution, when our country needs the blessing of Almighty God and the strong arms of her children, this is not the time for us to solemnly enact injustice. In duty to our country and in duty to God, I plead against any such thing. We must be against wrong in its original shape and in all its brood of prejudice and error.

No blood is to be shed except in self-defense, Deacon Double says. One hand goes into the sleeve of his robe and reappears holding a rolled leather map. He unrolls it and spreads it flat on the table before the other men, turned so that they may easily view it, paperweights pinning down the corners. Bends his bulky body over the map and begins moving his hand freely above the leather.

She set the glass before him. Milk will pass right through a haint, a white puddle on the floor. Best she find out. Maybe that Mr. Tabbs ain’t all he promised. Good chance of that, with his fancy clothes, proud hat, and that silver tongue. Made-up nigger thinking he other, better. I can give you your son.

He stuck his tongue out like a snake and let the tip of it touch the milk, his lips far away, keeping safe distance. He set the glass down, milk intact.

Who thirsty, he said. And then: You are just a weak worm of the earth.

The strays in Central Park have multiplied. At least double yesterday’s number grouped around the well, sweaty and haggard.

I can’t stay behind, my Lord

I can’t stay behind

Swaying like vile flowers, dirty mushrooms, in their wide-brimmed hats. A steady drift of them dressed in rags, some of the women in cast-off soldier’s coats, both blue and gray, men and women alike carrying their households on their backs (dirty sacks, splintery crates) and heads (baskets, bundles), arms toting tubs, kettles, and pots, animals too, pigs and roosters and chickens, their rickety children and gaunt mules, their porkers, goats, lambs, and dogs trailing behind them. A common sight: a swollen belly leading the rest of the body like a big stubborn eye.

The nurses work with dignified speed. Sun boiling, moisture and sweat hanging in the air. She can’t quite keep up, her hands like a den of aggravated snakes, the green veins beneath the skin pulsing and writhing in the heat.

A nurse he calls me. I ain’t never done that, I said. And I’m dry. No milk. I ain’t no nurse.

The church touches her hands. This is the abiding nature of the place. Always there. Once she settles down on the bed her day stops, her body crumpling inside her sweat-heavy dress. She tries to pay it no mind. Won’t bother to take it off. Can’t. Exhausted beyond wanting company, she lies still and tries to empty herself, empty herself of all that water out there, all that ocean she had crossed to get to Edgemere, and had crossed again (back) to get to here, the city, to this room in this church. She has a room in the church, small, but the bed is perfect for sleeping. Not too soft, not too hard, and plenty of pillows to cushion her head just right. Cracks in the drapes let in random patches of light. She lays bare her worries and tallies her setbacks. Thinking a long time before she falls asleep.

She awakes, the room ablaze with light. Drags herself up out of dreams, works the knots in her body out, doing all she can to turn away from sleep into morning. For yet another day she will have to get up, leave this room, and go back among those people to save herself.

Now that she and Reverend Wire are here, in the camp, nurses dressed in white descend from the topmost branches of the trees like a lost flock of birds. Tall trees that brush the light in, brush the shade out.

Her senses come alive. She breathes in the smell of strays, mouthful by mouthful, struggling for air. Every glance a landscape, too much for the eyes to take in. The broken, the blood, the pain. But the Reverend touches them all. His hand on each person’s shoulder carries absolute certainty. He issues a string of authoritative commands to the other nurses. A nurse he calls me. She wraps bandages, cleans wounds, snaps bones in place, wanting nothing of the skin. Cloth boiled clean spinning in speeding circles around a head, an elbow, or a waist. Spinning herself, a dull throbbing in her temple. A nurse. Why has she consented to such contact?

Trapped in their own collapsing bodies, the strays take their time getting from one place to another, brittle-shelled turtles. The oldest and most weathered of the bunch don’t seem able to get about at all, planted at a spot along the road or under a shady tree. Even sitting such, they seem to suffer from erethism of their digits and limbs, and twitching and tics of eyes and face. The Reverend tries to look them in the face, in the eye, when he talks to them, but they get all respectful, hold their elbows and study their feet. Every now and then he swings his face toward heaven, either seeking guidance or receiving approval.

They drool nonsense sounds to each other, Charity dizzy with listening, nigger talk that even she can’t understand.

Blouse open, the thin fan of bones wafting heat through wet skin, the moist pressing air cool for a moment, until the next breath. She picks and plucks determinedly at gray desiccated flesh, uncovering the dirty buried life, lifting it to the surface. Plugs up holes where existence can escape. No two bodies alike. All the bodies alike. For weeks now since they sent her from the Home to the city, she has gone out each day and tried to see the city through Wire’s eyes and with Wire’s words. How impossible. Too much. Too much. She follows this perfectly aligned road, putting her feet down in those overlooked spots speckled with brown and green, feeling twigs break under her shoes — the sound at least — walking on bones. On her way. By and by, finds herself far from the camps, on the out-reaches of what she knows, unfamiliar streets. Moves through the streets (never stumbles) with these thoughts on her mind. Many people about. Black men in blue and varying shades of blue and gray. (She is looking for color.) She sees ship sails sticking up out of the water like amputated wings, and boats that look like disembodied feet kicking the water.

We have to board the ferry, Mr. Tabbs said.

What fo? I ain’t lost nothing over there.

Thomas was there, on the island, surrounded by all that water. What had happened to the Thomas of old that she can still picture, still feel? Don’t ever touch me like that again.

She walks through the streets and tells herself, I cannot bear staying in this city any longer. But she is alone with only her labor in the camps and the church chores. She has no other bed, no other place to go back to. Elsewhere in her head. (Which way to turn?)

A hand snakes out and touches her then someone grabs her by the shoulder from behind. She jumps with fear, heart beating. Even before she turns around, her head goes into an accelerated and feverish deliberation, picturing several possible scenarios and how she will attack or defend and extricate herself. Someone calls a name, and she turns at the call, but she has turned in error, wrong person wrong name. A mistake that won’t let her go, that gets her thinking. All those faces out there. People everywhere. A gathering around her. No one knows her, knows her name. She can get lost. Disappear. Charity Greene Wiggins no longer.