Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

I got to dress up too? the boy asks.

No need. The boy is so thin that his clothes seem to have made an effort to fit as close as possible to his body so as not to miss his ghostly proportion of skin and bone.

Mr. Tabbs.

You can’t call me that. Once we’re out there, no misters.

Okay, Mr. Tabbs. The boy goes on looking at Tabbs, nodding at some private thought.

You just remember to keep an eye on Tom.

You ain’t got to worry about me. I done worked as a navigator befo.

He will set out again. He must set out again. He sets out again — his choices are his choices — for a country estate on the murky outskirts of the city (the geometry of moving from here to there). His motives for traveling are justifiable. Fill up your horn with oil and be on your way. He will find the Bethune woman, his duty to press on, but his brain runs in the wrong direction, trying to push down, unable to push down, one grisly thought that speeds repeatedly through his head: What if she is gone for good? How then will he get Tom to budge?

Earlier all evening he kept discovering himself stilled, unable to think. Now he must go directly toward what he fears.

They move in thick blinks of travel to the main jetty. It will cost you to get there. He will have to negotiate with a captain the price of passage to the city — Yes, ma’m. No, ma’m, five for you each — a cost too much, but he pays it. Eyes flashing beneath his cap, the captain takes Tabbs with one hand at his elbow and the other in the small of his back and helps him down into the slightly wobbling dhow. The boy leads Tom. Four in a dhow, wind smacking the sail, waves thrusting up. The captain proves to be a good ferryman, maneuvering against the strong currents. The dhow seems to glide along of itself, the water awake and rushing now that they’ve decided to take their chances, facing into the wind, feeling the wind, grateful (Tabbs) in fact for the cool salty blowing and flapping, all of the colors you can think of sparkling on the surface of the water, a shock of bouncing brightness, only this flashing substance lying between them and land on the other side, the final crossing. The captain speaks to them calmly in a condescending language, but there is no energy in Tabbs to be angry or insulted. The captain offers them oranges and bananas, which Tom and the boy accept. Eating done, they toss the rinds and peels into the ocean, the captain unspeaking, occupied with the close focus of sea, his hands working in silent rhythm, his eyes glazed with concentration. For the rest of the hour Tabbs watches the captain’s mannerisms along with the (unavoidable) shifting of the sea, Tabbs remotely enjoying the ride, forgetting. Then the ocean changes, starts to break open. The dhow rocks and dips, wood creaking, the sound of nails freeing themselves, water splashing up over the sides, splashing over them, and Tabbs starts to rue the moment, panic in the boy’s face, the boy scooting from one side of the dhow to the other and back again in an effort to avoid the water. Quit that now. Water, get away from me. Now I said quit. I ain’t playin. He reaches as if to grab his knife, until he realizes that it will do little good to cut the water, a thing that can’t be killed. Tom tries to brush and shoo the water away from his person. Tabbs feels dizzy, sick, stupid. Have they come this far, land just up ahead, only for the dhow to disintegrate beneath them, right under their feet, for them all to sink into a place of forgetting, nothingness? For his part Tabbs displays not the least bit of panic — too late for that — hands stiff and calm, keeps his knees parallel to each other beneath his dress, while light bounces off his scarf, tries to remain as calm as the seated captain. Tom stands fully upright, shoulders squared and chin high, in self-assured defiance of the swaying, hands outstretched to balance himself, knowing without the others’ saying that they (Tabbs) are afraid, that all is not well. With gracious ease the captain works the rudder this way and that and regains control of the craft, careful to give Tabbs a look of amends. Or is it something else? Hands moving, he draws the dhow parallel to the quay. Then he just sits there, looking at them, waiting for them to quit his dhow. He does not try to hide his dismay, making it clear that he will not assist them. To his credit, the boy (wobbly) regains his composure enough to climb the stone stairs twenty feet to the pier with Tom directly behind him.

They walk without hurrying, long slow breaths, although the streets are full of alabasters, alabasters who watch three Negroes go by, the only three, a Negress, a boy, and a blind nigger, Tabbs tense with uncertainty. The air carries to his ear sounds that have no understood meaning. Every window in the city unshut, shades lifted, curtains open. He should shrink down into himself, go back, but he cannot. Despite the heavy petticoats he feels light in his low-cut boots. The boy steers Tom away from any obstacle in his path with a slight tug of the sleeve. Tabbs realizes that they have set a course for the train station, Tom leading the way, walking more sprightly than he and the boy. Who is he that he can do this? Blind Tom can do anything.

They move in silence, everything suddenly heavy and slowed down, until they reach the train station, shade-filled and muted in color. A strict stillness. Alabasters, their curious watching of Tabbs, Tom, and the boy. Tabbs purchases three fares. (He catches a waver in the eyes in front of him, the alabaster caged inside the ticket booth.) And they take a bench, sit down, and wait, Tom between Tabbs and the boy.

We’re going to her, Tom says.

Tabbs’s hand on his shoulder to quiet him, a tenderness.

The room is so still that Tabbs hears no sounds until he thinks of listening for them, hearing calls of “nigger” and “blind.” The station towering over them so they feel they are within a deep iron well. The roof and walls rattle and shake whenever a locomotive leaves or enters the station. Caged and aging light in this echoing vault. There is no wish in him to step away from this place.

Tabbs breathes in the forbidden atmosphere. Eyes everywhere. Has his secret been found out? He feels manically awake. Tom blind and the boy eyes wide open, swallowing everything, shank glinting in his boot. Tabbs continues to sit locating himself. Not their train. Two or three more trains are called out. He lets the calls seep into him. The boy’s head is bent down, his lips moving, as if speaking with someone. He opens his eyes when Tabbs touches him on the shoulder.

Finally, they hear the call.

Train, Tom says. And already he is up and walking toward the platform, the boy shambling after him. Once again, Tom is leading them — to the proper car. (Blind Tom. Half man, half amazing.) They walk the stretch of the station to reach their compartment, from front to rear, open air on either side of them, Tabbs aware of every sound as the alabasters come and go. What he wants in his life now seems a huge thing.

Tom pulls himself up into the car and clatters about the almost empty compartment. The boy slides alongside of him and directs him to a seat. Tabbs sits directly behind the two of them, attached instantly to the sounds of the train. The alternatives that surround them. Not too late to turn back. But he understands the complications of removal. This is his whole life right here. No turning back. Soon they are pulling out of the station. Too late to turn back.

Fire up the engine, Tom says. You will see her.

Who?

Her.

Pulling into speed, above clattering wheels. Motion simultaneous around him. Tabbs nestles back into his seat, watching the boy, his face young and lean and dark, his eyes bright. Encased in the slow-rocking compartment. The train sweeps unhesitatingly into a tunnel, deep space around him. He sees his reflection in dark glass — some woman — and is shuddering in the darkness. This is when it will happen, he thinks, in the impersonality of darkness. But the train comes into daylight, his eyes inches away from the window, receiving the moments of brightly lit trees, water left behind, the city left behind, the train stirring its way up into the light, passing small towns.