Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

I see you brought someone along with you?

Yes.

And what is your name?

My name is Seven, sir.

Seven. Hello, Seven.

Hello, sir.

And Seven would be your son?

Perry Oliver had anticipated this question. Had even played over the possibilities of lying— yes, sir —but decided against it, figuring that a man in General Bethune’s position, a newspaperman, could easily investigate the facts and uncover the truth. The lie would cost him down the line. No, sir. He’s my understudy.

Your understudy? General Bethune shook his head once or twice in mock astonishment. Is that the term they use for it now? He made a gesture with his hand as if he were presenting Perry Oliver to an audience. So that would make you his overstudy.

Finger at his chin, Perry Oliver pretended to give the comment serious consideration. Yes, he said. I suppose it does.

I already supposed for you, General Bethune said. He gave Perry Oliver a measuring look, checking to see if the words offended or disturbed. Working his canes he made for an armchair near the fireplace. You will have to supply me with all of the details at a later date. Please take a seat. General Bethune eased himself into the armchair and crossed the looped ends of his canes in his lap. Perry Oliver sat down in the closest armchair near the piano, a good distance away from the General. Seven moved to take a seat.

Not you, Seven, the General said.

Seven stood like a trapped animal, unsure where to run.

The General gave him a tender and curious glance. So, Mr. Seven, how old are you?

You must beg my pardon me, sir, but I never tell my experience without good reason.

General Bethune laughed openly. Perry Oliver could not force himself to smile — wished that he could — let alone laugh, finding no humor in the boy’s ability to repeat a vulgar line used by every commoner in the street. (Pity Seven’s spirit of imitation.) Well then, the General said, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear. I won’t inquire any further. Your overstudy and I have some crucial matters to discuss. Why don’t we send you off to the kitchen for some cool beverage. Would you like that?

Yes, sir.

Unless your overstudy objects. General Bethune looked at Perry Oliver, challenging him. You obviously had good reason for bringing your boy to my house. Does your understudy need to be present for our meeting?

Perry Oliver was sure that he saw a mocking smile part the General’s lip. He judged himself from the same point of view as the General did. He said without hesitation — hesitation would kill his chances here and now — No.

As I thought. General Bethune raised his head and shouted, Charity! When the nigger didn’t appear quickly enough he took up both canes and banged them loudly against the floor.

The servant in head rag who had answered the door appeared in the room. Yes, suh.

Take this boy to the kitchen for a cool drink.

Yes, suh. She summoned Seven with a hand signal. Right this way, young master. Seven followed her.

General Bethune watched them leave the room. Then he directed his gaze at Perry Oliver. Perhaps I sent her off too soon, he said. It didn’t occur to me that you might require something from the kitchen.

No, sir.

Coffee? Tea? Lemon water?

No, sir. I am well replenished.

Of course. Mrs. Rudge. You are staying with Mrs. Rudge?

Yes.

He laughed a small laugh. How are you getting on with her? She is famously polite.

Indeed, Perry Oliver said. He noticed that shadows had collected in each depression of the man’s white face. Beyond his unkempt appearance this was perhaps the only discernible physical change that Perry Oliver could detect in the man from his previous visit two years earlier, comparing what he saw now against what he remembered, drawing up the image of the General standing in the sun-drenched garden.

And how are you getting on in the town? General Bethune raised his hand. Don’t answer. I apologize. This city is so boring. It must be murder for a man of your taste.

Perry Oliver sought some neutral response. General Bethune was hard to read. His words alone challenged, and to everything he said he added a facial expression that would have seemed more suitable for a different phrase. In the silence Perry Oliver breathed so hard he was sure the General could hear him. So to fill the void he blurted out, Thank you for taking the time to see me.

A transmutation took place in the General’s face, some blend of astonishment and anger. You are here on business.

Yes, sir.

That is why I granted you a hearing. I’m not taking time. The General’s eyes were mocking Perry Oliver, like a child seeing how far he could go. At once his presence in the house became clear like vision itself. This was stage, public performance. He had been here less than five (ten?) minutes and was already on display. Perhaps he had come all this way for nothing, thinking he had the upper hand when in actuality General Bethune controlled everything, had lured him into this trap, this elaborate joke. Here was the General Bethune that his reading and research hadn’t (couldn’t have) revealed.

He simply sat there, his back trembling before the danger of making another mistake.

Tell me, Mr. Oliver, what is your profession?

Until recently I worked tobacco in Savannah. He tried to conceal the trembling of his hand.

Tobacco?

Yes. His awkwardness filled him with disgust for his own body — heart, lungs, arms, and legs — which only made him feel more discomfort.

General Bethune shook his head in apparent (clear?) disdain. You count yourself among the common herd. Planters are a vile and filthy lot, totally uncultured. I have to deal with these types on a daily basis. That’s why this town is the insufferable disappointment that it is.

Excuse my lack of clarity. Allow me a correction. I fought down in Mexico. And then I put myself in the service of the most important tobacco planters in Savannah.

Mexico?

Yes, sir. Perry Oliver had meticulously prepared a list of battles and two or three detailed anecdotes.

If you can imagine such a thing, those Mexicans are a more savage lot than the Indians, from what I’ve heard. I’m glad I never had to square off against one.

I suffered that misfortune.

Yes, the General said. But I guess one man is as good as the next.

Perry Oliver held his tongue, unsure what the General meant.

Perhaps you can tell me all about it sometime. I’m not one of those who relishes swapping war stories or showing off injuries and scars. Each day presents us with some fresh triviality. General Bethune looked down at the floor, as if he regretted having allowed himself to even think of such matters. So now you see a need to free yourself of these planters?

Yes, sir.

You are a smart man. They fail to understand a fundamental fact. A nigger never pulls his own weight. Far be it from me to put my means of survival in the hands of unpaid servants. General Bethune spoke with a rhythm of pure certainty that required silence as the only possible response. (Thematic closure, harmonic return.) Then he went on. You are not here by accident. We’ve met before, you and I?

Yes. Two or three years ago at a party for your daughters. This much was true. I came at the invitation of your wife. This part wasn’t, but if the General caught the lie he didn’t let on. Not taking any chances, Perry Oliver pulled the invitation he had saved — it had lost none of its scent over the years — walked across the room, unfolded it, and handed it over to the General for further verification.

General Bethune looked at one side of the paper, then the other, only to repeat the inspection, looking without seeing, validity in touch and scent. That’s when you heard him play?