Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Thankfully, their destination was close enough for Tom to reach it in his pitiful condition. (How fragile we are.) Perry Oliver, Seven, and Tom — three — entered the establishment under a rusty horseshoe nailed over the door, with a small hand-painted sign — NO ONE ENTERS THESE PORTALS BUT THE TRUE IN HEART — swinging from it, and to the murmur of conversation that immediately ceased at their entrance, as if they had let in a powerful wind that extinguished sound. All heads turned in Tom’s direction.

Tom. An intimation. A signal. Every room was transformed when he entered it. (Perry Oliver recognized this fact for the second time, but only now truly acknowledged it. Tom’s commanding presence bringing back the feeling from weeks earlier when he had gone to retrieve Tom from the station, faces turning, eyes zoning in, as he led Tom to a hansom taxi, heads cocked, eyes aimed, attracting the same unthinking reaction as now.) Everything got put into the background, relegated to the shade, while this ugly little blind imbecile nigger boy became a radiant presence. The exact opposite of Perry Oliver, who all his life had been retiring and modest, keeping himself to himself.

Stationed behind the bar, owner William Oakley saw them enter and nodded welcome at Perry Oliver. He looked at the nigger and looked some more, but he said not a word, nor allowed his face to express surprise, disapproval, or disappointment. However odd or transgressive his behavior appeared, Perry Oliver had no intentions of divulging to anyone, including the owner, why he had brought a nigger into this establishment or why this nigger looked the worse for wear. One and all, his dealings with Tom made him feel supremely indifferent to public opinion at this moment and fully justified in saying nothing. Besides, whatever might be ruined now could be set right later. Comfort in that thought.

Although he and the owner had a long-standing business relationship — he rented space for his horse and carriage in a stable, Spectacular Spurs, that the owner operated up the street — he rarely set foot inside the establishment, in distinct contrast to Seven, who was required to come here at least three times in a single day to pick up their meals.

He eased Seven in the direction of the upright piano, indicating that the boy should direct Tom over to it. Tom sat down on the unvarnished bench, raising all of Perry Oliver’s expectations, and tapped out a few chords. Then he sat still, his hands folded in his lap. Like a puppeteer, Perry Oliver lifted the other’s hands and moved them over the keys. No doing.

Perry Oliver threw a questioning glance at Seven. Seven shrugged his shoulders. In the other faces Perry Oliver saw ludicrous expressions of disbelief, not that he was expecting to gain their sympathy or understanding.

You can’t blame him, Oakley said.

Why not?

It’s out of tune.

Indeed, it was the only conclusion one could draw. No doubting it, Tom knows what he wants to hear and knows how it should sound. Perry Oliver laughed at himself — the silent movement went a long way in releasing many weeks of tension — having to concede that Tom’s resistance went beyond his expectations. No, he had not foreseen in complete perspective the kinds of hesitation — five varieties? — the boy had put up, and could only assume that there might be more.

Two weeks later — three? — Seven had informed him over breakfast that the piano had been brought up to speed — the boy’s exact words — and awaited Tom’s use. The news made the food easier to digest. The moment was not far away when they could begin their work. Once breakfast was done, they hurried down to Scaldy Bill’s and placed Tom before the piano, the instrument thoroughly made over, shining with a fresh polish, and smelling all the better for it. Tom moved both hands over the ivories in a trial run. Then he picked his way through each key, first the black, then the white. Satisfied, he fingered out an entire song. And so it went. The patrons applauded after each number— What a remarkable nigger —and called out requests, but Tom seemed to play whatever came to mind. No one present was more impressed with Tom’s abilities than Seven, who remained standing near his charge, seized by the sight, totally reluctant to part from his side.

Seven heard their neighbor urinate into the same bottle the old man used to collect his milk. More than once he had considered going across the hall and telling the old man how to manage this action without making a noise. Show proper consideration for others. The neighbor’s good fortune that Mr. Oliver had already finished his breakfast and left the apartment, that he had been spared this offensive sound. Heaven knows what he might do. Understand, Mr. Oliver was a civilized man, the most decent sort, but some things he would not tolerate, especially from a certain class of people.

Seated across from him on the opposite side of the table, Tom knocked his hands several times against the flat wood side. You are hungry, he said.

What would you have? Seven asked him. Tom had a good appetite.

A little milk. A little bread.

Seven poured Tom a glass of goat’s milk, cut him a slice of bread. Despite his dexterity on the piano, Tom had difficulty bringing the glass to his lips without spilling the contents. One quick motion and the glass jerked up to his mouth, splashing milk across his face. Equal difficulty with bread. Less a matter of him biting the bread and more of him moving the bread sideways across his teeth until it all disappeared. A few archipelagoes of crumbs positioned above his milk-glistening upper lip.

Employ your napkin, Tom, Seven said.

Tom picked up his cheap cotton napkin and wiped his mouth.

Seven recognized that Tom was feeble-minded — is that how Mr. Oliver had put it? — and he tried to remember by what means he had brought Tom this far. He cast his mind back, hoping to recover an image of Tom as he was before. (Tom muffled in a worn black suit three sizes too large for him.) Yes, some progress, plenty, truth be told. Still, he had to get Tom to drop some of his ill manners, smooth out some of the rough edges, a goal he had set for himself. He had found common cause in the things Mr. Oliver required of him and those other things that he felt he should require of himself. (Principles and habits.) Only proper that he should give more, for Mr. Oliver had bequeathed him a tremendous responsibility, a laying out of trust, an investment of faith. One that posed a challenge from the first, but one he gladly stood up to since it filled him with new purpose and confidence.

Although Mr. Oliver had left the apartment physically, he was still present everywhere in the clearest way. He had moved this, had left that lying around, had not closed his window, forgotten to shut that drawer properly, left that slipper sticking out from under the bed and a half-empty glass of water at the window in his room. Seven didn’t believe these were oversights, mental lapses, but intentional disorder to keep him on point, to see how capable he was of putting each object back in its proper location. Even if he believed Mr. Oliver had no good reason for testing him this way — his skills were far beyond the basics; had long since adapted to the role of Tom’s protector and guardian, though he didn’t know the exact number of days, had known Tom all this time but had never made the effort to keep count until a week ago; give these days back, a full accounting — Mr. Oliver felt it was worth the trouble. So be it. Who was he to complain, to ask more?

Cows keep the milk down, Tom said.

No, Seven said. Cows keep the milk in. Tom turned his face to Seven in his crooked way. Seven forked back Tom’s eyelids with two fingers on his left hand, a slow revealing, like stage curtains being drawn up. The orbs were completely black and hard in appearance — should he touch them? — nothing soft about them, stone; you might believe that two objects had speeded down from the heavens above and come to a deep burial inside Tom’s face. If our eyes are indeed windows into our soul, as he had so often heard, then Tom lacked windows. Hard blackness sealed off inward entry. God had deliberately put Tom’s soul on his face.