Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

Ruggles takes up the tea (cold now) and gives himself time to drink it in silence, dark hand strangling the white cup. Well, homeskillet. He balances the empty cup improbably on his knee. I’m glad you came for something important.

Tabbs starts back, the beauty of day and all the bright-colored dhows tethered in the harbor growing strong in him. Each hull tilts toward its neighbor, two conjoining in a clap. He catches himself beginning again the attempts at self-persuasion, self-justification. Doesn’t relish the thought of punishing her, if that’s what it is, punishing the boy. Putting another bit of separation between them. What God join let no man tear asunder. Not his intention. Never his intention. For he must do what she can’t, restrained as she is by maternal attachments. No backing down. He never would have freed the boy from the Bethunes unless he had it inside to follow the idea wherever it took him. Remembers when the Bethune woman with a relaxed detached air took him into the stale dusty room where the boy was, a sight that raised in him a feeling of straightforward disgust. Skin and bones. Even the skin not fitting right, gone lax, like hand-me-down clothes three sizes too big. Something in him had wanted to kill the white woman, a familiar predatory self fully awakened. He pushed down the urge. Simply collected the boy as best he could and left the apartment, the glow of revenge lessening with each downward stair. He knew he had his work cut out for him, getting the boy back to health, that before all else. So much to recover, restore. But he told himself, I have the boy. Stalled, dragged back, I finally have the boy, Tom.

I want her.

I’m sorry.

Bring her to me.

I’m sorry.

And you’ll bring her.

That isn’t possible.

But I’ve asked you.

She has left you. It’s only me now.

You took her away.

I’m sorry. She has left—

The boy turns his face. You turn too and see her watching from the open door, fresh from slaughtering chickens, her hands and forearms lathered in feathers.

He feels a satisfaction that settles his mind: he is doing nothing time will not justify. What it will mean to give Blind Tom back to the world, back to the Race, and put the lie once and for all to the vicious claims for the Negro’s lack of intellect and refinement, genius and culture — the collateral and collective gains of his personal campaign against the Bethunes.

The waves are soft and almost noiseless, starting from far out and breaking in long smooth lines at the shore. (Whatever the eye wants.) A bell rings faintly behind him. The shore swells under a confused sweep of voices, Tabbs pulled into the sight of her marshaling a herd of sea-bathing children, safety and sanity, her watertight garments overspilling with the noise of gold and silver bracelets.

The boy makes a brutal series of movements from the chair to the piano then back again. Sits down on top of the black lacquered surface, face angled toward the floor six feet below, forehead greasy with sweat, legs swinging. Is the boy conscious of him? He has said nothing since Tabbs came into the auditorium an hour ago, two. Has he really sat for this long simply looking at the boy from a comfortable distance, following with glassy attentiveness an agitated body scrambling from one side of the chapel to the other?

You can say if you like.

The boy’s voice startles Tabbs. I’ve just been waiting here, waiting for you, he says.

To do it now.

Yes. Tabbs moves forward and takes a seat in the front row.

You like the bottom more?

He doesn’t understand the boy’s meaning.

Stay if you like. Wait and wait and wait.

Tabbs studies the coded mysteries, registering all the details of the boy’s clothing and grooming.

The boy places his palms against his chest, a circular expanse of fingernails budding against light-colored cloth. Why did the noise go away?

Indeed, the Home is unusually quiet. No rush of whispers, scampering feet.

Where are the children? Where did they go?

I guess they’ve finally learned to stay out of your way. That’s something.

Never enough of me.

I suppose not.

They miss me.

I’m sure they do. But don’t worry. They can have you when we’re done.

The boy begins rocking back and forth where he sits, arms rowing his torso into motion.

I thought you were about to play? The boy’s torso snaps back and forth. Tabbs can’t trust the boy’s ability to stay perched. I never told you about the first time I saw you in concert many years ago. I can still remember the fine suit you were wearing and all the people who had come to hear you. How excited they were.

The boy rocks still, upright as before. They carried trees onto the stage.

Flowers, Tabbs says.

Round trees.

So you remember those times?

I live in this body.

You remember?

They kissed my hands.

You must have enjoyed it.

The boy says nothing.

Can you show me some of what you used to do?

You need to hear?

Yes, yes, I do.

Why?

Well, for one thing I’m now your manager.

The words don’t have an impact on the boy’s face. The boy’s shoulders move once twice as if by their own accord.

How bout it? I would really like to hear you.

And you will pay.

Is it money that you want?

The boy says neither yes nor no but, Anything else?

You know there are thousands of people who will pay to hear you, Tom. Thousands.

I feel wonderful.

You should because you can have it all again, all and more, anytime you want.

One song on top of the other.

Yes.

Two niggers. Three.

Yes.

You will take me to all the places?

I will.

And bring the country.

Yes.

Tom leans forward, the piano supporting him in silence. I never had one like you.

That’s right, Tom, you haven’t. And I promise you it will be nothing like before. We’re alike, you and I. Negroes.

The boy does not speak his thoughts. Tabbs can hear his deep breath, his scent wafting down from high, filling the room. Darkness gaining, light an unneeded thing. He hasn’t asked for her. All this time and he hasn’t asked once. That much at least. Progress.

Does it hurt? Tom asks.

Does what hurt?

Does it hurt to sit on your tail?

Dr. McCune cleans his medical instruments, dipping each object in a glass of red wine diluted with several drops of water.

You’re the nigger doctor, Tom says.

Dr. McCune stops his preparations and stands over the seated Tom, considering the words. You remember me?

I remember you. Your hands smell like eyes.

Dr. McCune looks at his hands as if they belong to someone else. He holds them up and gives Tabbs a puzzled expression, but Tabbs stays where he is on the other side of the room, away from the Doctor and Tom, fearing that the Doctor expects him to sniff and offer an opinion. The Doctor requests soap and a fresh basin of water and washes his hands again, each finger receiving thorough and vigorous attention.

A nice nigger home below. I remember. Where are the others? I remember them.

Tabbs takes this as a pleasing fact, proving that Tom’s powers of memory are still in place.

It’s only me here today.

Hearing this, Tom lowers his head and remains mute long enough for Tabbs and the Doctor to lock concerned glances. You want to look down my throat. Take the nigger words out.

No, Tom, the Doctor says. I remember the nice people you lived with, Mr. and Mrs.—

I know her, Tom says.

When the examination is complete Tabbs and the Doctor retire to the smaller and more intimate anteroom. Here Tabbs feels that he can finally see the Doctor properly, comforting to let his gaze dwell on the other man’s clothing and skin, the Doctor average in height but notable in presence and build, dark with long limbs, outfitted in blue military dress, a blue that dominates the eyes, welcome contrast to the plain humble discomfiture of the room’s furnishings. A pistol on his belt, his bald head and face mounted cannon-like in his high collar, features strong, unashamed, broad nose, wide mouth, and bulky lips — Negro through and through. Gleaming mustache, gleaming skin, gleaming suit and boots — the shine of hard surface, armor. The only sign of vulnerability the black under his eyes, hanging bats.