Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

On his way to the main road, he was surprised to discover that the Bethune estate actually had an abundance of gardens, sectioned off by wrought iron fences six feet in height, fences that were no doubt crafted by the finest nigger hands in the county. Pine trees grew by spiraling iron shafts. He wandered into one garden after another easing about, noticing but failing to truly observe the colorful flowers in fading evening light. Strolled all the way down to a pond where he sat on the bank and looked thoughtfully at the water. The gloomy pines with their shaggy roots stood motionless and dumb. After some time he crawled on all fours to the edge of the pond and dipped his face into the water and gulped the fresh liquid, his eyes open, seeing all the way down to the bottom into another better world.

Two years later, Perry Oliver boarded a hot autumn train — cloth suitcase weighing down one hand, leather briefcase weightless in the other — with his young assistant, Seven, a boy not yet a teen, to make a journey of several hundred miles for a speculative sit-down business conference with General Bethune — a man he had met once and a man he had come to despise after all he had learned since that meeting — an interview that might provide him nothing and cost him everything. He suffered at the thought of travel, for he had a theory that each mile of travel shortened a man’s life by months, even years. Distance ages us, not time.

These speculations were reason enough for Perry Oliver to remain homebound — he felt no disappointment for places he had not seen — and for him to, on a daily basis, sit and do nothing, as much as possible. He would admit that this habit of pondering disagreeable facts and suppositions — he estimated that he repeated his theory five or six times a day to an audience that was always the same, always interested: himself (curious how little the ideas of an individual vary) — always brought with it a measure of certainty and comfort, but he also believed himself savvy enough to recognize the possible limitations of his theory, to distinguish what was probable truth from what was improbable exaggeration. Any man who hoped to make his way in the world needed an ability to see both sides of an issue.

He was unsure to what extent this journey would either verify or invalidate his beliefs and principles regarding travel, but the risk of a train ride — how shocked he was to unveil the heroism that had been concealed within him for so long and that was pushing him forward into new ventures — was meager in comparison to all he stood to gain. So be it. He was in a state of becoming. In a word, Tom summed up everything he desired.

While he had made sure that both he and the boy dressed in light summer clothes — given the significantly cooler climates where they lived, this requirement entailed purchase of a new wardrobe, required his spending some tens of dollars of the six thousand or more that he had saved up over the years and that he carried on his person now — their fellow passengers were all starched and ironed. Some were red in the face from the heat and the weight and color of their dark garments. (The men had even refused to take off their hats. Perry Oliver never wore a hat and wouldn’t pretend to now.) And the numbers of bodies in the car only made it worse. Although the car was a first-class compartment, it was crowded and had been so from the start — and so it would be to the finish — three to a side with small windows — he would have preferred double — a narrow aisle, and no corridor. He had paid top dollar in the mistaken belief that he and Seven would have a compartment to themselves. A few hours after setting out, the journey began to seem tiresome and absurd, the heat uncomfortable, the smell (sweat and steam) offensive, the method of transportation violent, and the results increasingly uncertain. Seven did not seem to enjoy it any better, following the world outside the window with a sad worried expression. Every now and then he would shut his eyes and breathe desperately. He was thin and anxious — Perry Oliver often had to remind the boy to keep his hands still — and had been from the very moment Perry Oliver brought him into his service those many months ago. (How long has it been? Yes, nearly two years and counting.) The traveling clothes Perry Oliver had purchased for him did little to improve his appearance, as the new tailored order of neat angles and patterns was disrupted by the old familiar chaos of the boy’s sloppily manufactured cap. This matter of a ratty cap could easily be accounted for. The little traveling they did do by train always made Seven feel like someone important, although Perry Oliver’s custom of keeping the boy in the dark, of failing to reveal to him where they were going or why — Perry Oliver had his reasons — never seemed to bother him. In fact, it brought a lifting of spirits, a ritualistic sending-off that necessitated the donning of this favorite cap, a cheap beaver skin that fit his head somewhat too snugly. Perry Oliver wondered, had he himself purchased the ugly cap — when? where? — or did the boy already own it when he came into his service?

Seven?

Sir?

Answer me this one question. Where did you get that godforsaken cap?

From the getting place.

It was not the answer he expected. Surprised (shocked?), one mind told him to challenge Seven’s statement and press for the clarity of detail — when? where? — even if for no other reason than to instruct the boy in the proper method of answering a question— Rule number one: Always answer in a complete sentence. Rule number two … — while his other told him to let it stand, for the phrase had a certain enchantment that, momentarily at least, took his mind away from the drudgeries of travel and the mental worries of his scheduled meeting with General Bethune, as it hinted at some deeper penetration, made him ponder about what it held back. Seven’s wide serious face seemed to suggest that he was almost afraid, forbidden, to pronounce the name. All the better if the boy had thoughts and projects he did not disclose. Up to now Perry Oliver suspected (feared?) that he might be, through either birth or upbringing — Perry Oliver had few pertinent facts about either — totally empty.

He rocked to and fro — was he moving his body or was the train directing it? — half dozing, his whole mind on the contract and cash in his briefcase until the city rose up out of the landscape, a black shapeless mass that air and sky began to mold into a recognizable form with each passing mile. Even at a distance of twenty miles it was little more than a church steeple rising up from and pinning down the horizon, but as they drew nearer he could see small houses huddled on its outskirts, placed down in patches of crops, then large farmlands radiating outward from white mansions, looking down on rows of cabins and shacks like badly aligned teeth, then the city itself with its town hall and three-story buildings and stone streets. Bell clanging and steam rising, the engine pulled them into the station. Hardly had they stopped before an army officer forced his way into the overflowing car, followed by a second soldier with a rifle mounted across his chest. They moved slowly from one end of the car to the other, row by row, staring down into the face of each passenger. Satisfied, they moved on to the next car. (Perhaps additional officers and soldiers were performing this very same duty on the other cars, serial repetition and imitation.) Only then could the passengers detrain.

Even with the shade awning overhanging the platform, the hard midday light stunned Perry Oliver quiet. Everyone’s face had the longing for something cool and wet. A small group of soldiers stood posted along the stationhouse platform. Seven’s eyes widened in admiration at the sight of them. He even stopped to look. What next? Would he ask for an autograph? Perry Oliver spoke his name to move him along. Miniature suitcase in hand, Seven resumed walking, turning his head for a final look or two and stepping on the heels of the person in front of him.