Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Brethren, the boy Bible-mouth said, it disappoints me that you find mirth in this remarkable display of the glories of the Almighty’s unchanging hand.

One man spoke up. You said it, Pastor Frye. It’s monstrous kind of our almighty father to send such likely niggers for our convenience and pleasure.

You should learn from this gift, the Bible-mouth said.

The men in the room eyed him one and all then gave each other slanted looks. Did I hear correctly? What did he say? Does he mean it?

Hold back on your words. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? The Bible-mouth looked at each man in turn. Do you question the Almighty’s handiwork? For it is He alone who directly assigns to each nationality its definite task on earth and inspires it with a definite spirit in order to glorify Himself through each one in a peculiar manner. Every nation is destined through its designated organization and its place in the world to represent a certain side of the divine image.

He’s starting early, Charity said to herself. Can’t wait til Sunday.

The whole of mankind is a vast representation of the Deity. As the good book says, Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

Frye’s wife had pushed to the front of her seat in excitement, as if she were seeking a moment to applaud.

Therefore we cannot extinguish any race either by conflict or amalgamation without serious responsibility.

Charity thought she heard someone whisper, Save it for Sunday.

The merciful aspect of the Almighty’s economy shines out in history as clearly as His justice and judgment. Who among you is chosen? Who among you is free? — for as every man here knows, submission to the Almighty turns out to be the only true freedom.

General Bethune squeezed the boy’s shoulder. No harm done, he said. He smiled at the boy and turned his inclusive face to the men before him. These intelligent gentlemen are kindred spirits, he said. How often have I had to relay to them these very same sentiments.

Sentiments are not facts, the Bible-mouth said.

Okay, General Bethune said. Facts.

I am prepared to believe you, another guest said, at least in principle.

On the contrary, the planter said.

He’s the preacher.

I admit to minor moral stagnation.

Do you not have greater sins to acknowledge? the boy asked. Yes? Then admit to more. My aim is to win you over.

The men looked perplexed, at a loss for answers. General Bethune rushed to save them. So this means you enjoyed the performance?

A blessing, the boy said.

Indeed.

Very much.

What a find.

No, the Bible-mouth said. General — he always called General Bethune “General”—do you not feel some sabbatical obligation?

Sabbatical? one of the men said.

It means Sunday, someone else said.

I know that.

Yes, Sunday. I do not mean to confuse. I am here to humbly serve all of you. General, unbeknownst to your person, you find yourself in the honorable position of holding the power to save our Sabbath.

General Bethune just looked at him.

Would you assign this boy to play in our service this Sunday? As you are well aware our pianist is abhorrence.

General Bethune looked at his wife. I don’t see what would prevent it, he said. You but ask.

I ask. Your boy would be a welcome respite. God willing.

For a single Sunday? Mary Bethune asked.

We might first begin with a Sunday service, then try another Sunday, and another, and by and by through the Sundays, for a long-standing tenure could not possibly exceed our needs. Not to exclude the nonsabbatical services during the week. At present these services present us with less need for musical accompaniment. This Sunday would be the trial for all else. The Almighty will see to it as He sees fit.

Thomas began fussing with his clothes. Mary Bethune went into action to quiet him down. His animation disappeared as quickly and as suddenly as it had appeared.

It would be an interesting experiment, General Bethune said.

Hardly, the Bible-mouth said. Our dilemma surely is real and constant. The boy is chosen.

Tom don’t play no Sunday school music, Thomas said.

His affront registered on every face in the room, although no one voiced complaint.

Party over, guests gone — Charity goes so far as to kiss Antoinette on the cheek in farewell — she returns to her cabin surprised to discover that the three girls are still awake, fresh-faced and happily seated in a circle on the splintery floor where Mingo is indulging and tantalizing them with some sleight of hand involving forks and spoons. She offers her family a brief and censored report about the party, gone from her whatever element of detachment she felt earlier during the actual event, images developing clearly and cleanly now in her mind as she retells it and as she concludes with an emphatic paraphrasing of the boy-mouth’s request-offer. (Does she pass on Thomas’s demurral?) Only to herself, inside her own skull, does she sing the old melodies, religious or secular, she learned on other farms.

O massa take that bran new coat and hang it on the wall

Darky take that same ole coat and wear it to the ball

Has she not caught her girls, at work and in play, singing the tunes? Songs Thomas has never known in their isolation, their withdrawal from the world of the plantations at Hundred Gates.

One of her daughters asks, Is that preacher a man?

He ain’t no preacher. He a Bible-mouth.

Same thing.

No.

Like water and rain.

Mud and dirt.

No.

Tell her, Mamma.

Tell her, Daddy.

It’s the same thing, she says.

See. I told you.

That ain’t what you said.

Did too.

Did not.

Is he really a preacher? her oldest daughter asks.

Yes, she says.

See.

But he my age. He a boy.

Yes.

Where his mamma?

He ain’t got no mamma, cept God.

Can I go over to his house sometime?

Why?

So we can play.

He don’t play.

How you know?

Cause I know.

What, he ain’t got no toys?

He don’t play with toys.

And he white, another daughter adds.

That’s not the play he means, she says. He wants Thomas to play the piano and sing in the church.

I wanna sing too.

Me too.

You can’t sing.

This gets them singing.

I can see the coming—

— of the glory—

— of the lord. Hallelujah.

Amen.

Glory be.

She bustles the girls off to bed, where they go gently into good sleep with a few final words.

People don’t dance no more.

All they do is this.

And this.

She lay down beside her husband, her mind astir with her daughters’ chatter, with Thomas’s sudden appearance and her family’s lack of interest in it, and with the boy-mouth’s show of interest and his offer. She thinks about his church.

The Bethunes and other prominent people of the city take up the first rows of pews, an empty row separating them from ladies and their daughters dressed in white cotton sunbonnets and long-sleeved dresses and their crude husbands and sons outfitted in coarse cloths and unraveling ties — their Sunday best, meaning some clothing other than their tattered work garments — hair and clothing glistening with fish grease. Niggers take up the last rows of pews if any are left — the small church has yet to construct a balcony for them — otherwise congregating about the open door outside, some leaning in to look, slipping in their Amens and Hallelujahs, humming responses between verses, and joining in on the hymns, these activities competing with, made all the more difficult given the discomforts of the sounds and the smells of the poor farmers’ bony mules and skinny horses hitched to run-down buggies and wagons. (The better grade of horses and carriages are afforded a lot behind the church.)