Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Sorry, the trader said. Wish I could be of service to you. These the last I got.

The trader was a tall husky man — a few inches taller and a few pounds heavier than the General — well into his thirties but who tried to mask his age behind a light youthful mustache and adolescent glasses. A loud man, no force in this world capable of shutting his mouth. She stood absorbing the noise and movement, every few seconds his announcements bouncing off her body. Already woozy from the long day’s drive march to this clearing in the woods, she didn’t have the strength to correct him when he got her name wrong. On the silent march here, their feet built a common language. Some started to come undone, some already undone even before her family joined the little band. She heard someone murmuring pleas to Jesus. And words whispered in consolation. But she was not caught up in this, prayer the last thing on her mind. What was happening before her now, around her, neither awed nor moved her, for it was more tremendous than religion or church. Days of blind faith and belief behind her. She was past the point of crying. Important to her to know that there were others who felt worse than she did.

She pondered these men swarming around her, something hungry and desperate in their speed. Some stopped to look and listen, getting the drift of the trader’s pitch and seeing if their eyes could verify his words. Someone leaned forward hoping to catch a glimpse of the baby she held in her arms, mummified in blankets. She pulled the baby closer to her bosom. Still they came, a flurry of white hands (and feet), poking, prodding, tugging and testing, opening mouths and closing them.

Careful now, the trader said. You break it, you own it.

The details of contact. She watched in a spell, unable to speak even if she wanted to. Her voice would be too small.

No, ma’m. They are not rejects. What in God’s earth would possess you to say such a thing?

This General Bethune did not rush, but moved slowly with a composed eagerness, his hands folded behind his back. From what she had overheard he made no attempt to conceal either his intelligence or his eloquence. (In the years to come she will see and hear both often.) The essence of high breeding, of intelligence itself is to be perfectly natural under the most artificial circumstances. And the trader chose to cling to this general’s presence even as he argued and bargained with his other customers, engaging them in plenty of hassling and haggling, mostly for show. Who was this sprawling elastic creature so capable of being everywhere at the same time, his smile here but somehow also over there? The General seemed to resent the trader for some personal reason unknown to her, a man unworthy of sight, looking at him only casually and briefly, perhaps wanting to be done with the introductions and advertisements and ready for concrete terms, negotiations. She would be happy to be rid of him as well. Had known him only a day or two — depending on how you counted the hours, where you began — insufficient time to make a studied judgment, but she had come to the conclusion that he had crippling doubts, was unsure of himself.

Sir, Domingo said. Just that one word. It was the greatest thing anyone had ever said in the history of the world. She felt something leaping under her skin. His strength in these matters, turns of mind, made her want to join him. He was a smallish man, and she was a woman of average height, which made it possible for them to look each other face to face without any lifting or lowering of heads or adjustments of feet. They were both slight as well, and she liked to imagine them as two units conjoining to form one substantial body. People (a person) of few words, able to set the silence against each other’s doubts.

Sir, Domingo said. He never called any white man master. Look at us standing here, he said. He held his palms out at his sides, like a Bible-mouth pausing midsermon to hook his congregation.

The trader gave Domingo a look expressing silent betrayal. He stuck his hands in his pockets, nothing better to do with them. But from the look in the General’s eyes and the smile on his lips she could tell that he already knew what Domingo was asking. Seemed to expect it in fact. Had he not lingered before them? Had he not passed them by on several occasions only to return again? His gaze sliding over all of them — her, Mingo, the baby blanketed in her arms, their three girls, who stared hard at this funny-legged white man.

Then Domingo did the impossible. Took two steps forward. Sir, we been put out cause a white man couldn’t keep up with his affairs.

She saw the trader’s fisted pockets go heavy. The trader made some clever remark, trying to draw a laugh from the General, but the other man said nothing, acting like he hadn’t heard. Sir, could I interest you—

No, the General said. He looked at the trader. Tell me about this.

They are foreclosures, the trader said.

From where?

Out by Thirty Wells. A little run-down habitat called Solitary.

Solitude?

Yes, I believe that’s the name.

And what is the other name?

That would be a Johnson. Should I get the papers?

You mean Jones?

Yes.

A Wiley?

Yes, the trader said. A Wiley Jones. He had to say something.

Now how hard was that? the General asked.

Sir?

Then Domingo cut in. Sir, maybe I don’t look it, but I’m two niggers in one. I can work like you ain’t never befo seen a man or any two men work.

The trader pulled his hands from inside his pockets. The General seemed to take pleasure in his anger and discomfort. I can assure you, the trader said.

Is that something you wish to spend your time doing? the General asked.

This gave the trader reason to pause. Sir, I am deeply disturbed. I really need to get these off my hands. I’m getting wed in two days.

The General looked at him. That’s pressing business. And here you are, he said. I commend you on your locomotion, with so much else before you.

I could be convinced to give it all up.

The General didn’t look at him. How much for this bunch?

The trader worked some numbers.

That’s not what I’m asking, the General said.

Sir, I’m deeply sorry if you misunderstood me. The trader started on his numbers again, like a drunk man who couldn’t stop himself. Then he said, I’ll even throw that uncle over there in at a five-dollar discount.

I don’t need an uncle.

Okay. Perhaps—

What would I do with an uncle?

The trader said nothing.

Now, what am I asking?

I’m sure we can arrive at a fair sum, the trader said.

Or I could go rob the treasury.

And so it went. While the men worked figures, she and Mingo looked at one another, exchanging unspoken thoughts. They did not hold hands. They did not hug. They did not kiss.

It did not take long to finish the negotiations. The trader seemed satisfied, happy even. That is a price I can live with, he said. I’ll throw in the blanket warmer for free. Eyeglasses glinting in the sun, he shook the General’s hand in farewell. I’m forever in your debt, he said. You really learned me a thing or two about a bargain.

Despite his casual disposition, General Bethune took the discovery of Tom’s talents with more than a grain of salt. Within a month of learning (seeing) what the toddler (crawler) could do, witnessing with his own eyes and ears, he instituted a new routine. At least once a week, he would instruct her to bundle Little Thomas up in a carryall and bring him out to the carriage, where she would hand him up to the General’s wife, already seated there. Then the driver would help the General take his place beside his wife, the toddler cooing in her arms, and she (they) would assume charge of Thomas, the couple partnered in some secret cause — never revealed to her, even now, though she has her suspicions — lasting from that moment until Miss Toon returned Thomas to her later that evening, comfortably asleep. She would stand at the gate and watch the carriage pull away, escape vision, leaving her to imagine, without forming detailed images — that would be too much — Miss Toon accompanying her husband to the printing office and aiding him in whatever activity transpired there. (Either openly or clandestinely, she never heard them discuss what went on.) An odd calm would set in. Indeed, if called to judgment, she would admit that she met these weekly separations with an uneasy mixture of fear and relief. For during this period of her life Thomas dominated and consumed all her mental energy even when he was not directly present. If nothing else, the weekly separation gave her, both physically and mentally (what could she do about it? Out of her hands, beyond her control), a safe and justifiable withdrawal from her son for that short spell of hours, during which, in matters of child rearing only the Bethune daughters, and her own, were left to her care. They were proud girls, arrogant, and bashful only among themselves. Twelve frenzied limbs that made daily chaos of the mansion.