Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

The notes lower to a comfortable audibility, reviving the light, that stub of redness reaching through the glass, sea burned by setting sun. Eliza hears the song breaking in his hands. Two-fisted snatching at the keys, rebel green thumb ripping up roots from earth. Elbows sliding along horizontal, a straight track from left to right, right to left, the arms agile, the fingers quick. Skipping from short rows of black to long rows of white. Pulling air to the bottom of himself before letting it go. Mouth opening and closing, counting so that nothing is left out, inhaling and exhaling his little triumphs. Bench sagging some — yes — but bearing the full weight of his efforts. The shape appropriate to what comes out of him. That sound. (Making.) Arms, hands, fingers sensing the weight of water. An invitation. Anything you want. Anyplace you want to go. The sea closer by every step on land. But silence marks a stopping point. The pleasure in looking ruined. Horizon gone. Vanished. Edgemere where the world ends, every time.

The island demands contemplation. Extra. More. A bright world lost at sea. Each day, year after year, the surface strikes Eliza as new and she is refreshed by it. Could it be that ocean flows from isle, from this rocky flipped-over bowl spilling out flow, wet nourishment for all the world? Should it flip in reverse, hollow side up, the world will run dry, drained water pooled at inexhaustible island bottom. How big, how deep. Edgemere a world deeper and ampler than anything here on the mainland. City and anti-city, island and anti-island, place and anti-place, water and its negation. Once again she wonders (in her best moments, on the verge of logic, a humming coming from the corners of consciousness) if she and Tom should venture there. Across the watery wilderness. A clean start. (Get clean of him.) Escape on (in) her mind — she observes from a distance, images more so than words playing across a black screen at the front of her skull — if not on her tongue. Thinks the action, sees it even. Edgemere the city’s great unknown, dark space of silent speculation set between her and any magical possibility of relocation. Eliza thinking about flight again as she used to in the concert days, Sharpe off freely roaming the world with Tom and Warhurst —tour means gone, see you later, my heart, my love —and she left alone, here, with herself, feeling like an outsider in her (their) own apartment. (Room and its evident lack.)

As the one who had stayed put, stayed at home, excluded from the joys and sadnesses abroad, whatever they were, only fair that she somehow be part, one of the sojourning band (birds of a feather) from a distance, so that the word overseas could appear in her vocabulary as it did in Sharpe’s. Rumor the method of passage, the Blind Tom Exhibition surfacing out of anything anyone had to tell from flat paper. Not that those distant reports ever satisfied her for long. Words slipping away, a sentence breaking, at a dead end, and Eliza feeling short-changed, starting to taste extinction, words working against her. To come out seeming solid even if empty, she found it necessary to console herself with communications put down in a clear hand — the store of fine blue-colored lavender-scented paper Sharpe had brought her from Provence, the gold stylus with the silver nib he had brought her from Marathon, the marble well filled with deep blue ink he had brought her from the Adriatic—

Dearest Husband ,

What shall I do with Monte Cristo? I’ve abridged my reading of it until it resembles someone suffering from typhus. The first part — until the Count becomes rich — is very interesting and well written, but the second, with few exceptions, is unbearable since Monte Cristo performs and speaks inflated nonsense. But on the whole the novel is quite effective. Please send your recommendations.

— blue ink staining her fingers whenever the need arose (whatever the time of day), when she thought it would do the most good, transport her. Fingers, wrists, eyes, back straining to yield justification. Counted on, his missives told her little, a short blocky paragraph or two that it behooved him to say and that provided nothing useful, that left her dispirited — counted out — even if she was grateful for any little crumb, not having voyaged herself.

Until the day Sharpe would come bounding through the door, bright as an actor onstage, still enjoying his free range of the world. He, Warhurst, Tom each in a suspicious state of freshness, despite months of travel. Sharpe would pull her forcefully into his chest and kiss her, her body pressed so tightly to his that she would have difficulty breathing. Would hold her at arm’s distance — Eliza (always) conscious of their difference in height — look her over, but her eyes would stay firm, looking dead at him, for to trust him implicitly would have been a mistake. (The tour was never finished. Years coming and going.)

And so Sharpe would start putting down on the table the first of many gifts. Sugar and spice. (Curry, cardamom, cinnamon.) Coffee from Arabia. (Plentiful in Paris.) And he would be talking, as if she had been waiting there weeks months in suspense for him to bring back a report from his travels. In the parlor — she sees it now — he sits down, stretches his legs out, long narrow boots crossed at the ankles, laughs. He seems content, at home with himself. He is. The liberties he takes, allows his person. She looks up, looks down, looks at him and looks away. Warhurst a far better study in avoidance, fixed in place beside Tom at the piano, down-turned eyes, hair combed into obedience. Coachman brings in the first of the luggage, a trunk as tall as short as he is and too heavy for him to lift. Why he drags it behind him like a corpse. He gives off the edible smell of fresh-turned dirt.

Missus. He smiles, gone in the teeth. Bows, the top hat spilling forward like a toppled tower.

Offering to assist the midget, Warhurst leaves when the midget leaves. With only Tom there, Eliza takes the opportunity to ask Sharpe why he has been away for so long, and walks right past him without waiting for an answer.

Alone in the bedroom she takes a few moments to collect herself before she returns, returns only to find Sharpe gone.

Testing Tom, she touches him on the shoulder. Who knows if he misses her in the least. Nothing from him. Not a handshake or hello.

How about a hug, Tom?

Any reason he should press his thin arm against hers? Chomping at the bit, ready to sit on the bench. Any reason she should stop him? Doesn’t. Already he is in position. Already his face is glassed over with music.

Coachman, Warhurst, and Sharpe come in with the last of the luggage. (Who actually says it?) Sharpe needs to go out again. After all the traveling (ships), he has to take his legs for a walk.

A turn or two in the park, a lazy float in a gondola along the canals. Eliza wrapped in a layer of self-consciousness, refusing to let herself be carried away from any impulse of happiness. She doesn’t let his name pass her lips. No words in fact. Just nods her head yes or no without further elaboration. Means to have no intimate talk. Must keep her pride and not cross certain lines. For his part, Sharpe refrains from pressing her. Doesn’t ask “How’ve you been?” or “How have you kept busy?”—concerns best left alone. A wound he understands he must smile through.

Hambone Hambone where you been?

Around the world and back again

Presents her with more gifts from abroad — ivory combs, ebony bangles, pearl necklaces, mahogany bracelets — but neither his words nor his hands touch her, Eliza determined not to let herself slide into nostalgia and forget the real man in front of her. But nothing really goes away. Every return is just that. Feeling much more than she was able to feel while he was away. What she can do with her back facing him: tear up, spill over, wipe her face with the new lace handkerchief just given her. What she can do afterward: for the first time look directly into his face. Quick to look away, but he’s seen her, though, in that one brief moment, has seen her face change. Starts moving with all the confidence of a man who has triumphed, her resistance not an issue.