Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Yes, I am here.

You came because of me.

I shall not pretend. I came because of you.

Dr. Hollister makes quick work of his examination. Records his findings.

Perhaps you can give him something for his belly, Eliza says. He suffered a bad stomach last week. Tom touches his abdomen in verification.

He has too much flesh, Dr. Hollister says. He’s gained more than ten pounds since my last visit. He looks at her, making sure she understands.

She does. For the good doctor how one looks is of first importance.

He mixes Tom a tonic with medicines drawn from several vials.

He closes his bag in less time than it takes to tell. He will require a daily constitutional. Facing her again while he talks.

Where will we walk? Where would they walk? Of course, Dr. Hollister can imagine (knows) only too well the life they live here.

He will do well to walk. And you would do well to give him relief from his person whenever possible. His continuance depends on these conditions.

What exactly does he mean by that?

Did you hear that, Tom? Dr. Hollister asks.

Good doctor.

Dr. Hollister takes the time to fasten every button on his overcoat. He grips the handle of his bag. Already she is wondering about his instructions.

Tom turns toward the Doctor. What kind of time is this to leave, to go home?

I’m all done here. You’ve made my stay light.

I have. I hope you’re not too tired. Tom gets up from the bench. You’re dropping with sleep.

Am I now? The Doctor touches Tom’s head.

Even your hand. I ask you, where’s the sense in your leaving?

You wish to delay my going? Dr. Hollister takes a seat on the bench with his bag at his feet. Who will look in on the horses?

Tom sits down beside him.

Yes. I see. I see.

It’s good you do. So we’ll sit for a time. My afternoon is totally dependent on you.

Is Dr. Hollister offering her an opportunity to escape as he had on that mad afternoon three years ago during the violence?

We can travel at nightfall, Dr. Hollister said, drawing himself up in his seat.

No, she said.

Do your best not to worry. I have agents here in the city who will see to our safe passage.

I’ve suffered a shock. I need to consider my options.

Her words temporarily shunted Dr. Hollister into a disbelieving silence. Yes, you’ve suffered a shock, he said. Now you must let it end.

No, she said.

Madame, if you entertain thoughts of a respite—

No I do not. But I do entertain other thoughts.

He gave her a woebegone look.

I will go out for a short time and you will remain here with Tom and see after him until I return.

I cannot honor that arrangement.

So Tom must accompany me.

Madame.

Doctor.

You don’t want to see what’s out there, he said.

I can quite believe it. But I will go all the same. She wouldn’t have him coming in her home telling her what’s dangerous and what’s safe.

Accepting that he had no voice in the matter, Dr. Hollister looked at Tom again and again, as if trying to read the saving solution in the boy’s expression.

She walked out into a maddeningly sunny afternoon, some underworld creature slinking into light, into air, after a long hibernation. Blinking off the shock of sudden glare. Then taking the light inside her, blazing from inside out like a dream. She walked awkwardly, her feet unreal, feeling exposed beneath a dress falling in stiff folds. Even with the sun scouring everything, drops of water were hanging from the trees, reminding her that it had indeed rained last night. Either that or the trees were sweating.

In any direction she looked she saw long ropes of smoke rising in gray-black rebellion against the sun. The sidewalks and streets paved in shards of glass — hop, skip, jump — like some sparkling but reckless carpet, her passage across it accentuating her amazement that the city was still in place, the houses and buildings standing. Telegraph wires had been cut. Along the shore lay scattered the rusting remains of rifles and cannons, tools and field equipment, canteens, shovels, picks, and axes. The ocean drowned in a frantic proliferation of debris — hats, blouses, scarves, shoes and boots, staves and paddles — along with bloated cow-like forms bobbing in the surf. Avenues clogged with streams of rioters spilling out from smashed-in doorways, with booty floating on their shoulders: cumbersome lengths of carpet, heavy iron bedsteads, finely crafted desks and tables, leather-topped stools and chairs, and porcelain basins and commodes. Hands pushed through broken windows burdened with bulging sacks that they quickly dropped to other hands raised greedily in wait at street level below. This was what she saw. This was what I saw.

Was she any more than they?

Perhaps why she hurried on, kept on her way, seeing nothing at all, unless it was the glass under her feet. Why break her eyes with all the sights? Why when she was already fully weighted with words of apology, words of guilt?

Is she any more than they?

Walking now, she wonders how long it has been. Too long. Stiff legs, crotchety arms, and rusty joints. (What she has lived to know.) Testing the waters. Indeed, motion brings the better. Footsteps with nothing physical in them. Just out and about. Seeing what can be gained from an aimless stroll, a brief separation from Tom.

The first leaves to change stop her. Now all the trees pop into bright color one after the next. Autumn in an instant. Leaves in free fall. Falling about her shoulders. The colors look elegant on her sleeves. And loose leaves carpeting the ground. (Which leaf belongs to which tree?) One color giving shape to another. Twirling on the sidewalk like scraps of another world dropped from the sky. And she stumbling forward, the world beautiful again. Remembering what this feels like.

Why has she left this pleasure until now? How easily she could have done this before, take her feet on casual stroll around the neighborhood. Take in some fresh air.

Evening arranges itself around the fallen leaves. And then the sky blooms. She watches the stars pop out, one by one. Now here is something she has forgotten, that you can see stars here in the city. There they are, like — looking at them closely — holes punched in dark cloth so light underneath bleeds through.

Of course she has already stayed out longer than she should have, but the harbor is just over there. All the big ships sailing to Britain and the Continent and the West Indies and Africa and South America and the Pacific. Just over there.

Something goes skimming by her in the air. Ship blowing its horn. Much has changed, much between her and Tom. So why is she scanning ahead in her mind to find an excuse for why she has stayed away so long? What is holding her in this world?

What if she returns home and finds Dr. Hollister no longer there? No, she will find him there — and Tom — giving her some last words of advice as useless as all the others he has given her.

Mr. Hub calls, Tom says. He calls when you are away.

When am I away? she says. I am never away, she says, except that one time — yesterday or the day before that, two, three days ago, four — when Dr. Hollister came. And she is thinking, could he really have missed me for those few hours when I stepped out?

He calls with thoughts of flowers and fish.

And where am I when this happens? Just where do you suppose?

Mr. Hub wishes to drive you to the country. Our house in the country. With flowers and fish.

He is slouched all the way forward on the bench, with his face turned sideways in flat repose against the strings, the piano’s cantilevered lid raised guillotine-like above him.

But where have I been?

So come here and sit and let’s figure it out.