Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

I’m going to bed now, Tom.

As might be expected.

With no light to guide her, she starts her ascent up the imposing mahogany staircase — a body wound through space — reaching out for the inclined railing to steady and direct her. Pain sets off in her hand. She realizes that she has actually grabbed the blade-like finial, which is carved in the form of a fiery torch (Sharpe’s idea), with pointed top and sharp spiraling edges, rather than the customary polished globe. Soon finds herself sitting upright on the bed, its circular shape (Sharpe, ever the iconoclast) — a beached sea creature trapped inside the pink and blue and gray squares and diamonds of the crocheted bedspread — so familiar to her bottom and the soles of her feet, yet she feels like an exile in an unknown space, her fears scrawled into words on the unmade sheets. Lets her head fall back into the pillows, her turn to be quiet.

She awakens the next morning in a semi-trance-like state. Shudders loose. Scrambles out of bed. If she slept at all last night she does not remember doing so. (What actual and what the engine of dreaming?) Opens one drawer after another, moves into the closet and dresses for the day ahead. Finds Tom downstairs — he is always up at the first fluttering of color in the sky — seated at the kitchen table, an empty plate before him, utensils set, fully clothed, a napkin tucked into his collar.

Miss Eliza. Sleep well?

Yes, Tom. Thanks for asking.

And how are you today, Miss Eliza?

Fine, Tom.

I am fine today too. The smile on his face is meant for her. No trace of last night’s glumness. (Forgotten? Denied?) The old Tom in full effect. How faithfully he assists her. Pumps bucket after bucket of water from the well out back — the motions come naturally, the trajectory of handle and shoulder — and hauls them to the door. Grinds her coffee. Beats eggs in a bowl, his hands circling faster and faster, while she slices some strips of salt pork and sets them popping in the hot lard-lathered skillet.

The discarded bread crumbs, the empty coffeepot, the quiet sink, the cups, plates, and utensils cleaned and put away — only now does he pick up on it (again), the smell of moving, uprooting, as present and pervasive as the odor of their long-finished and satisfying breakfast. Tom seated across from her, fingers locked on the table, head bowed, like someone saying grace. It’s not easy for her, his silent pleas cutting through defenses. The best recourse is just to get on with it, Eliza dumbfounded once again at how poorly she has understood his feelings.

In the parlor, he calls himself to order. Fits his bell-shaped bowler hat onto his head, a pristine object she hasn’t seen all summer, since their arrival here. Picks up his portmanteau — when had he readied it? — in one hand and his malacca cane with the gold knob, a gift from a former stage manager, in the other, his actions weighing everything with a solemn expectancy. She ties her bonnet in place and pulls the door open, but he remains standing, wavering slightly, rocked shut. She takes him by the arm and leads him out.

An hour later at the rental stable, Tom begins to unload their luggage in neat even stacks directly behind the buckboard, quicker than she can count, a tumultuous rush, nothing she can do to stop him; her admonitions go unheeded. Must be that he insists on believing they’ve already arrived at the train station, the first leg of their journey complete. Stands waiting, leaning on his walking cane, the horse one place he another, as if each, Tom and horse, understands the other is off-limits, the rules and restrictions reestablished. She steps down from the driver’s platform and situates herself midpoint — equal distance — between Tom and the horse, throwing in for show a few demure adjustments of her bonnet to offset the way her hands move into confident position before her waist. The owner smiling politely in the doorway less than fifty feet away, tallying up Eliza’s transgressions and calculating their severity and trying to decide what chastisement or punishment is warranted before finally seeing fit to leave his post and amble over to her. She settles her account with a one-pound sack of sugar, a luxury she’s sure the owner’s never seen by the look on his face. (More where that came from — despite a summer of ounces weighed and measured — all those unused sacks she must lug back to their apartment in the city.)

He places the sack on the running board, then looks at Eliza, looks at their muscled-over luggage, looks at Tom, back at Eliza. You must be after the early train? he asks.

Yes, the early.

And could do with means of transport. He palms his neck and rubs it. Well, miss, it grieves me to inform you that I can’t carry you. He pinches some rheumy annoyance from its lodging place between the corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose then takes a fresh look at Eliza to find out how much damage his report has caused.

She can’t say a word in response.

I’m constricted. You see, my boy is out sick, leaving me shorthanded for the day as is. And I am beholden here, to my livelihood. No getting away. He nods at the road fifty paces off. Try the first able body that comes along. Already he is bending over and grabbing one slender leg, anxious to see what the stallion has dragged in with its hooves. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he unhitches the animal from the buckboard and man and beast disappear behind the closed door of the stable. (The last snort of the nameless horse.)

So be it. She feels cheap and stupid, feelings in no way lessened by her knowing that the owner is of that variety of white man who believes she and Tom hardly deserve his professional courtesy. But he is willing to extend it anyway, clear evidence of his patient and generous nature, his time and words bordering on abundant acts of chivalry where Eliza and Tom are concerned. (Lucky them.) Whatever her true feelings, a proper lady would, at the least, openly thank him while privately counting her blessings and expressing gratitude to the forces that govern the universe. She stands, studying the sound and quality of the air. Small creatures clicking in her ear, the clatter of the leaves, a crow caught in a hot gust of wind somewhere above. She’s reminded how close the South is. How recent the war. (Time comes flying back. What has changed? What will change? What can change?)

The road encroaches upon her like a tightening band, squeezing into view a single solitary figure who strolls along it, shoes thumping in the dirt. Eliza watches the shape with almost scornful incredulity, fearing that she has given physical form to some mad hope filling her heart, and wont perhaps to admit that the stable owner’s predictions (promises?) might be fulfilled so quickly. Notions and motives that seem reasonable enough until she sees a head spin in her direction, a quick look of recognition before looking away, and only then does she believe that the figure is real, Eliza witnessing this brown face catching sight even as it is caught, catching then confirming her presence and Tom’s with additional discreet glances. The Negro seems wary, content to carry on. So why is it that she can’t call out to him, can’t lift her tongue to the roof of her mouth and press a single word out, or at least signal him over?

Sees him curve off the road and begin to make his way toward them, brisk and definite. What strikes her is how the Negro takes the initiative. NO way she could have expected that. Surely, he has caught wind of her situation and looks to gain some improper price. And she will have to pay it. She shuts her eyes tight for a second to prepare herself. Finds him standing with his eyes open in apparent expectation only feet away from her. He’s an imposing man, several inches taller than Tom and twice Tom in years and almost double his weight, but there’s nothing slack about him. Statuesque, chiseled. And perfectly groomed — shirt ironed, collar starched, sideburns trimmed — like somebody for Sunday service but in a manner that seems natural, unobtrusive, as if he had done little more than slip into a fresh set of skin.