Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

With a roll of wheels and the tramp of horses’ hooves, the guests arrive. Some stand looking wide-eyed at their surroundings, as if they have never seen a mansion before, while she stands outside the main door, evening air cooling her face, observing them. All smiles and courtesy she welcomes them into the house, and each guest greets her accordingly. How are you this evening, Miss Charity? Once they are comfortably inside the music room — the General receives them warmly, shakes hands, even mock salutes — she and Antoinette work diligently to bring out the prized vessels and begin serving the guests refreshments. Many of them have brought along their slaves, musical instruments attached. They strike up a tune. And the men turn jubilant, sharing circumstances, anecdotes, and memories as they share the smoke and embers of their cigarettes and pipes. The harsh sounds of their niggers’ banjos and violins like so much distant backdrop, commanding about as much recognition and concern as a mosquito’s irritable buzz. They inquire about Sharpe, who is never in attendance at these gatherings, his time consumed in speculative affairs on the General’s behalf. (So the General says; for all of us. )

The General’s parties are not exclusive to men. Sometimes wives accompany their husbands, all joining in conversation, the women taking dainty sips of water (no spirits) while the men imbibe brandy and whiskey. (Best savored in moderation.) But the men always find a reason to leave their wives and wander out to the garden — how well one breathes out there, she thinks while she remains inside to attend on the wives, fully hearing their chatter or demands (requests) but also half listening to the men, the private cadence of voices outside, the pungent trail of tobacco in the air, smoke trailing their gestures and words — each man buoyant when he returns to the room, as if he has just delivered the punch line of a joke. Antoinette goes out to the garden and sweeps up the ashes.

On one occasion, the boy Bible-mouth, H. D. Frye, came with his wife, who, for whatever reason, was the only white woman present besides Mrs. Bethune. Frye by some accounts was no older than fourteen — no telling, he keeps quiet on the subject — the wife twelve. Sharpe had discovered the boy, an itinerant or circuit rider — unclear the distinction — during his many travels, and after much discussion, convinced him to come back to their town and take over the church the Bethunes attended, as the cholera had recently put their pastor under the earth (en route to heaven). He dressed the same at the pulpit and in the street, assuming a single garment, a black robe fitted at the waist that flared out at the ankles like a woman’s dress. He was rather tall, fresh-complexioned, with prominent cheekbones and clever observant eyes. Despite his youth his face wore an expression of absolute reverence, the skin reddish, burning with faith. He was thoughtful and seemingly abstracted. She never understood a word he said either from the pulpit or from the floor. Providence moves through time as the Gods of Homer through space. S he suspected that his congregation was as much impressed by his impenetrable sermons as by his prodigious memory. Name any verse — Isaiah 2, verse 4—from the Good Book (of Trial, Affliction, Punishment, and Eventual Redemption) and he could recite it word for word. Even more, he could rearrange the words in any order you requested and seemed to take pleasure in delighting children and niggers alike by reciting verses backward, forward, upside down, and sideways.

He was otherwise a quiet boy, never talkative, saving his words for the pulpit. (The entire evening she never saw him once speak to his wife, equally quiet as her husband, the plain-faced girl speaking as much with her hands as her mouth.) With the exception of the General, all in the room seemed both highly impressed and highly honored by his presence. The visitors rose from their seats and greeted him with a bow. He did not bow in return, or greet them at all. No words or bodily contact, only a gesture resembling a slight forward tilting of the head, barely discernible. With a show of feeling, Miss Toon went up to him and kissed his hand. But he only returned her a blankness of face suggesting that the kiss had never happened, a moment now excised from time, which caused her to doubt the doings of her own lips. She quietly disappeared from the room. Without pomp or ritual the General touched the boy between the shoulder blades as if he were any other youth. Maybe this was the way he had once touched his own son, Sharpe. (She thinks she recalls such scenes. Even forms a picture. But wasn’t Sharpe already a man upon her arrival at Hundred Gates? Possibly. So whatever it is she sees now must have occurred before her arrival. No other way.) The two had come to know and like each other — only Dr. Hollister commanded equal time, attention, and respect from the General — and almost daily he would show up at the printing office for some coffee or cakes, the General fondly observing the boy while he ate. She also remembered how the boy cried out behind the church after he had preached his first sermon — power in his words, eyes glowing with administrative fire — a show of emotion that required a strategic response from General Toon, who went over and began patting the boy on the back, solemnly confirming him in his new function.

Just as things began to settle down and as the visitors were managing to elicit a few curt and reluctant sentences about church matters from the Bible-mouth, Miss Toon returned to the room, leading Thomas by the hand. Charity was as surprised as anyone to see him, and almost didn’t recognize him. How much he had grown since she had last seen him several months ago and how well they had outfitted him in a little black suit. Miss Toon released his hand and faced the assembled. Where he stood Thomas was full of agitation, turning his head up and down, this way and that, his hands and arms and torso twisting about, like a wet dog shaking dry. Miss Toon made her announcement then concluded by asking them to take a seat and maintain silence during the performance.

The guests were clearly disenchanted at first, casting a glance over the wild nigger boy who would supposedly be entertaining them at the piano. In their faces they made no attempt to disguise their true feelings of disgust for the nigger. Some even trembled, fearful. The boy Bible-mouth stepped back in revulsion. They looked at General Bethune as if they were questioning his sanity — he was indifferent as always — for what man in his right mind would bring before them a wild untamed animal and even worse, a creature who was apparently feverish, rabid?

Undisturbed by their reaction Mary Bethune ushered Thomas over to the piano, where he sat down on the stool, positioned his hands above the keys, and moved his head around him with some curiosity.

That’s when the men broke out in a chorus of laughter. (All but the Bible-mouth and his wife, two silent peas in a pod.) James, you are a prankster. Hands down the best. You have it in you after all? Whoever heard of a nigger playing the piano? Where’s his violin? Someone please fetch his banjo. His spectacles. But they all saw that General Bethune (their James) was indeed serious. One and all, they seated themselves as Mary Bethune with great formality of voice instructed Tom to begin his recital.

Thomas teased out the opening notes, the men by turns startled or impressed — read their faces, record their gestures — at Tom’s performance, not wanting to believe but enjoying it all the same. (And Charity watching and listening, but feeling nothing.) Not surprisingly, the Bible-mouth and his wife sat in solemn gratitude. By the end of his recital, the last crescendo of chords, their eyes and ears had grown accustomed to Tom’s primitive condition, responding with smiles and laughter to his strange movements and gestures. Basking in the high revel of event, they all wanted to touch the nigger — and touch they did, the men almost fighting one another to get a sufficient number of feels and caresses — their previous discomfort dispelled, all acting and behaving as though they had known nothing else, at ease with this nigger like all the others they had known. The only holdout was the one planter among the group — how rare it is for General Bethune to even allow a planter in his house; but it was necessity, duty, a way of both keeping the peace and preparing for longed-for war — who deliberately did not change his expression to show his sophistication.