Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

As if to further confound his pondering, she lowers her face, her line of sight directed at the floor, the same way she had sat beside him on the train up from the South, head fixed, silent (can’t recall her saying a single word), never returning his gaze. He wonders now as he wondered then about her apparent timidity, to what degree actual, to what degree fabricated. Tabbs recognizes her dress as one of a handful Wire had given her, a length of fabric that in no way fits her form, but seems to stand away from her body and assume a shape of its own deciding, layers of air between material and skin. Preparing for their trip, Wire had guessed at her measurements, how what might best fit where, then had several fine dresses made for her.

I put on my speed, she says, talking at the floor. But chillen is a tribulation.

Well, you came when you could.

She says nothing to that. So he finds himself, reduced to her company once again, sitting quietly in the church, a space that he has decided to make his — should he lock the door? — for an hour or two before he sends her back to the Home. He muses about right and entitlement, about which of the two of them has claim to the church, Wire’s domain, if only for an hour or two. Should he have asked first? (Ask Wire. You should have asked him.)

How do you find it here, on Edgemere?

I ain’t never seen nothing like it.

Yes. And that’s a good thing I hope.

Everybody so kind.

They just want to help. We all want to help.

…

We all feel so honored to have him here.

You did a good thing.

I’m only doing what I promised.

…

I hope you’re finding some time for yourself. For you and your boy. He speaks into her profile, her skin smooth, her features firm, like a highly polished piece of wood.

Doin jus fine.

I can always talk to Ruggles if there’s something else you need.

Mr. Ruggles, he so kind.

Yes. That’s how we are. We all want to help, help you and Tom.

Thomas, she says.

Thomas, he says. Tongue corrected. Looking into that frozen face. You must feel special, so special because of the boy, Thomas.

I have him back.

Yes. But you know I’ve been worried. The boy has me deeply troubled. In fact, I’ve been praying, praying about the boy, Thomas.

The words turn her gaze directly into his face.

He hasn’t been himself.

Thomas? Him? He new. He jus need some time.

Do you think that’s what it is? I thought it might be something else.

He givin you some trouble.

Tabbs studies the fancy green- and-pink pattern of her silk shawl. Is it worry he hears in her voice?

Don’t you worry about him. He got his own mind. Always did.

If you just try talking to him.

I can’t see what good it would do.

We need to hurry this thing along. Isn’t that what you want? You can have all that you couldn’t before. And it will all be yours. No Bethunes to take. To steal and rob and cheat. Don’t you want that?

You ain’t got to yell, she says.

I’m not yelling, he says. Is she giving him some back talk? (What it is.) He feels like slapping her. (He has it in him. Knows this for a fact.) He could abandon the bad-tempered woman and simply walk out. But he brings himself to say, I’m sorry. I need your help.

She moves her hand and the loops of metal bangles go sliding and clanking from her wrist to her forearm then back again.

Now he has to sit here and put up with all her barbaric jewelry. Has he not been generous to her? Has he not given her back her son? A chance at a prosperous future?

I can only imagine what you two have suffered, he says. The Bethunes. For all those years. How you managed to tolerate them.

She wipes the sweat gathered at her eyebrows. I had my share of white folk. Before and since. I tolerate them jus fine.

I cannot help but sympathize with you, Mrs. Wiggins. Greene Wiggins. With an e. Through my dealings with the General I well know the nature of his character, the nature of that family, the whole line of them. If he keeps talking perhaps he can pull from her the responses he needs.

You know these woogies. They gave me misfortunes, misfortunes aplenty. They don’t know no other way to act. You can’t expect no different.

Tabbs nods.

But they did that one thing right.

What thing is that?

They gave my son a name.

He is on his way to Ruggles. Not that he has much choice in the matter, for his difficulties with the boy have persisted for almost a week (more time lost) after his useless conference with the mother. Best to see Ruggles.

Doing his best not to think of home, the city. His past lingers about him, a low humming in the ear, some memory trying to worm its way out. Many times since his return he has ferried to the city for one thing or another — interviews, appointments, arrangements — but he has never been able to summon enough will to venture to his old apartment in Black Town, afraid of what he might find there. White Pappa sitting in his chair. White baby sitting at his table eating out of his bowl and plate. White Mamma sleeping in his bed. Dreaming his history. A part of him there still, unfinished. He sees it but cannot hear it or remember its smells, tastes, and textures. No sounds or words carrying through time. His mind too full of present goals. The boy part of every thought, the boy even in his least ideas. Much is still unsettled, but he is borne in a single direction — the city, then the world.

Looking at all that water, you can’t see the city, you never see it. You must trust that it is there. Perhaps Edgemere is drifting farther and farther away from the city into some dark unknown. He has devoted a great deal of thought to leaving the island, giving him and Tom the benefit of new surroundings. But he has already invested so much here, the preparations and negotiations. (Many waters crossed.) Why lose all that? Better to stay the course and push aside whatever stands in his way. He tells himself that the mother has honored her end of the bargain. Without her he doubts the boy would have progressed the little he has. Still, he has his own comfort to seek and his own situation to improve as he can. Give the stage back to Blind Tom and give Blind Tom back to the world, an interesting and worthy undertaking, highly becoming of his skills and powers. What better for him and the boy and the mother?

Just so happens he sees her in the market — speak of the devil — holding in each hand three chickens upside down by their three-toed feet, heads only inches above the earth (fantastic white-yellow brooms), their eyes round and blank as coins, oblivious to the slaughter awaiting them. He lingers among the fishmongers until he can no longer see her. Avoiding her he has chanced upon a heated argument between two women, their voices growing increasingly high above rows of fish lined up on identical wood boards, one accusing the other of thieving her money by means of a tiny hole bored into her bucket.

Edgemere seems the perfect place for the pull of superstition, the islanders at ease in their customs and habits. No white folks, alabasters, around to check them. Tabbs purchases a red snapper from each woman, but his coins fail to quell their dispute. They continue shouting, each woman standing up in anger from her bucket stool.

Outside the church Tabbs sees scores of children converge around Wire, their bodies weirdly frenzied. Father, they call. So much they want to tell him, their voices urgent and excited, speaking all at once, Wire trying to calm them, moving his hands and pulling first one tongue from the mix then another, temporary success, one voice barely waiting for another to finish. He lowers his torso bridge-like, making it possible for each child to kiss his cross, the big silver object attached to a lengthy thumb-thick loop of iron around his wide neck. It swings back and forth in the light, the shiniest metal Tabbs has ever seen, clanking like a cowbell. You wear Jesus, Tom said.