Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

It went on this way, Tom fingering one song after another. Perry Oliver could not recognize any of the melodies let alone the titles because he knew little about music. His entire life he had been uncomfortable with sounds. He knew this much: the disparate lines of the party — the chattering, the laughter, each guest’s clever or stupid remark, every grace and gesture, the shoes and clothing made of the simplest materials or the most fancy, the attendees in all of their perfections and defects — took pattern and form in the melodies, chords, and rhythms of Tom’s piano. The more Tom played, the more frenzied he became. He turned his blind eyes and face to the audience and shouted “Look at me!” or “How about this?” or “Let’s see you do that!” or “Straight now!” or simply “Hey!” Perry Oliver might have been mistaken, but he would have bet money, and plenty of it, that Tom was expressing the comments for Perry Oliver’s ears only.

With a great rising, waving, and falling of his hands, Tom closed a song and immediately stood up from his stool and took a stagy sort of bow. All of the objects in the room returned to their customary place, piece by piece, as did the various layers of Perry Oliver’s skin. (A week later, two weeks, he could still hear the music buzzing softly at the back of his skull.) The audience greeted the finale with a standing ovation that caused Tom to begin bowing again and again, like some well-oiled or broken machine.

Guests began to leave their seats and gather around the performer and his master and mistress at the piano. It took some effort for Perry Oliver to take to his feet, but he worked his way around the gathering bodies to squeeze within touching distance of Tom, evening sun reflecting off the boy’s black form. (While Tom played, Perry Oliver had felt, heard, and remembered nothing of the weather.) Perry Oliver was so agitated and exhausted he couldn’t evaluate what he had heard — was it good or bad? — with a cool head. Closer up, he could see that Tom’s hands were dirty, the nails rough as if he’d been scratching and gouging the earth.

One after another the guests praised General Bethune and his wife to the skies.

What a remarkable find.

I’ve seen nothing like it.

They were skilled appraisers, knowing when to pause to let a compliment sink in.

Did you really enjoy it? Mary Bethune asked.

Why of course.

Need you ask?

I’m so pleased, Mary Bethune said.

From their place behind the piano, the three daughters rose in unison and went to stand among themselves near the fireplace then seemed to decide against standing and took the seats formerly occupied by their brother and parents.

Tom is quite something, General Bethune said. He infuses our best melodies and harmonies with a barbaric element.

Yes.

And you should hear him sing, he said. My wife prefers his playing, but I’ll take a good song any day.

Fascinating creature.

How do you explain it?

A conundrum of Nature.

God.

Or the devil.

How did you acquire him? someone asked.

Nothing in the Bethunes’ manner of expression showed that they had heard. So Perry Oliver asked, How old is he?

Mary Bethune stopped one of the fancily dressed niggers and took some old porcelain cups from the silver serving tray he was holding, then personally poured each guest in the immediate vicinity a mouthful or two of steaming tea from a silver kettle. You must really try this tea, she said.

Tom? an elderly gentleman asked. I don’t believe I recognize that last allemande. What’s it from?

Tom rubbed his knuckles against his teeth.

You play delightfully.

Other guests set about paying their compliments to Tom and his master and mistress. Tom responded to the remarks with a faint tilt of the head, a raised jaw, and random nods and head shakes directed at no one in particular. Mary Bethune put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and pulled him back into her body, hugged him as if she were protecting him from ghosts, while the daughters sat silently before the fireplace, snuggling close to each other like tiny animals feeling the cold, and watching this world of adults with amusement perhaps or terror.

A pretty young woman, earrings glinting like stars from the darkness of her tanned skin, stood smiling at the boy. His head rose as he caught her scent, and his hand rose too, reached out and touched her bare arm near the shoulder. She shivered.

Perry Oliver spoke at that moment. I really enjoyed your playing, Tom.

Tom spun around to face him. Mary Bethune looked at Perry Oliver.

Tom, she said, this is Mr. Perry Oliver from Savannah.

Her statement impressed Perry Oliver. She had remembered his name and an important particular, though they had spoken for only a few minutes.

Tom peered up, merry-looking. Hello, Mr. Perry Oliver. Tom reached out and took Perry Oliver’s hand, his own still trembling from the music. Glad to meet you. He gave Perry Oliver’s hand a painfully wild squeeze and pull. And just as suddenly threw the hand free.

The lines in Mary Bethune’s face tightened. He seems to respond to you, she said. She studied Perry Oliver’s face. Most unusual.

Whatever thoughts she was trying to puzzle together were interrupted when Tom walked off in the direction of the fireplace without warning. The blind boy moved — he walked with the same small quick steps of his mistress — without stumbling into objects or chairs over to where the daughters were seated. They stood up from their seats to greet him. The oldest girl hugged him, while the youngest rose up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. Then one of the girls said something Perry Oliver couldn’t hear. Shut up, Mary, Tom said, pushing her back. And he set off lumbering through the room, the little girls screaming with laughter as they pursued him and tried to catch him. When he neared the piano, he trotted over to it and leaned over the keys, where he did some violent hammering with one fist, as if he were trying to nail the keys in place. Mary Bethune retrieved the boy — the girls hurried off to their former seats at the fireplace — and returned him to his position beside her husband.

Once again, Tom reached out and took Perry Oliver’s hand. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Perry Oliver from Savannah. He pumped the hand in steady rhythm.

Tom, Mary Bethune said.

He released the hand. The girls tittered and giggled.

Tom broke away from his mistress and began moving through the crowd, firmly and impulsively grasping the hand of one guest after another, and squealing (singing?), Hi, sir. Hi, madame. Good day to you, sir. How’s the weather, madame? Soon he was rushing about the room, bumping into both servants and guests and screaming, Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people. Mary Bethune’s face quivered with embarrassment. Her husband lowered his eyes to hide his feelings. With her natural quickness, Mary managed to corner Tom and calm him with one touch of his elbow. He allowed her to lead him out of the room. The three girls got up from their chairs and followed.

Not long after, the party drew to an official close. General Bethune stood by the French doors leading out of the room and offered good wishes as each guest departed, many of the women kissing his hand, as if he were some sort of holy man. General Bethune was the only person Perry Oliver said good-bye to when he left. He had so much he wanted to say to the man about Tom, but the General stood before the opened door and seemed far away in his mind and somewhat put-upon. Once Perry Oliver was in the garden, he noticed some object — gray in color? He couldn’t say with distance and the distorting light — on the lawn. He took it up, with an immediate lifting of scent. It was a perfumed invitation that one of the guests had left behind, with all of the necessary facts — date, time, location — printed in fine type on cream-colored paper — not gray — with a red border. He folded the invitation in half and placed it in his pocket.